How does it feel to know you've just won again?

Nothing released this year has really set this pulse racing but I sense a tripping, hopping cavalry may be about to canter over a nearby hillock, turntables in saddle-bags. Portishead have a new album, Third, which hits the outlets in April. The early reviews are glowing (Uncut magazine was practically salivating) and I shall be adding this product to my Amazon wishlist forthwith. I’m tempted by the latest Nick Cave recording, Dig, Lazurus, Dig!!!, as well. I must confess that the brooding Antipodean and his acclaimed recordings have crept cannily under this radar for years but I appreciated the new single – the album’s title track – and, without wanting to appear a slave to the critics’ outpourings, I have read fine things about the new stuff. I note that Robert Forster has a new album called The Evangelist out, featuring, I believe, at least one song co-penned by his former Go-Betweens partner-in-rhyme, the late Grant McLennan. Again, the critics seem to love it. Happily, there is an online stream of the long player here. It does sound lovely. Frankly, anything to do with The Go-Betweens leaves me misty-eyed.

Again, I was lured and tempted by the Oxfam ‘three tapes for a quid’ shelf on Saturday. I bought The Story of The Clash, Volume One which features mainly early songs by the punk legends. Verily, who could tire of Police and Thieves? I also picked up a copy of Sound On Sound by Bill Nelson’s Red Noise. This looked intriguing. I guess Bill Nelson is better known for his work with Be Bop Deluxe but I’ve heard of Red Noise and noted an interesting merger of post-punk attitude and pioneering electronica. Howe’er, the tape is broken so I shall have to wait to discover the greatness – or otherwise – of Nelson! The third spool contains a long player that I already own on vinyl but have not played for many a merry year: George Best by The Wedding Present. It sounds wonderful, unwithered by age. From the breathy splendour of Everyone Thinks He Looks Daft to the witty evocation of gawkish first love that is A Million Miles, this recording brings back many fond memories of John Peel Festive Fifties, sweaty mosh-pits and countless carefree capers. All the songs are wondrous indie gems with much darkness lurking behind the wit, riffs and repartee: My Favourite Dress is a compelling, powerful and emotional song about jealousy that always catches the breath while Give My Love To Kevin – a personal favourite of D - also resonates with rancour and bitterness directed towards a former lover. This is a splendid album that I am tempted to award ‘masterpiece’ status to, a vibrant independent belter packed to the rafters with passion, melody, intelligence and youthful ebullience. I salute it and shall play it loudly in my motor car on my next excursion. Parp! Parp!

Sporting Matters

A single week from now, the Gloucester club shall exist magisterially and proudly as one of the last four teams in the Heineken European Cup if - and I am not unaware of the immensity of this ‘if’ - the ‘Elver Eaters’ defeat the might of Munster, a whole province, next Saturday. On yesterday’s form, the ‘if’ is visible from space. My favoured team failed disappointingly to finish off a fairly ordinary Worcester outfit at the Sixways stadium, despite entering the half-time interval leading 14-12 with the knowledge that a gale would be in their opponents’ faces for the second period. If Worcester, a scarcely adequate fifteen, can take advantage of Gloucester’s lack of ruthlessness and cutting edge, then our Irish visitors shall enjoy a day to remember. For the record, a last-gasp try by former Kingsholm favourite Thinus Delport finished off the visitors.

I take few positives from yesterday. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel, was, yet again, the finest player on view. His eye for a gap, electrifying pace and acceleration and all-round vision caught this ocular organ all afternoon. My player of the season needs to be wrapped in cotton wool all week. Oliver Morgan enjoyed a splendid return to the fabled colours; his composure under the high ball and his trademark elegant running wi’ ball in hand were welcome. Another returnee, Alex Brown, played with aplomb and determination, securing plenty of Worcester ball in the lines-out as well as sufficient possession from his own team’s set piece. I hope Will James partners him next week; yesterday’s captain Bortolami seems a pale shadow of last term’s colossus and I sense the Irish fellows would cope less well with the physicality of our shaven-headed Welshman than with the more cultured, but less imposing, Italian. Elsewhere, I hope a place is found for the Scot Paterson in the matchday fifteen to face Munster, preferably at the expense of the talented yet erratic Lamb, who is yet to really boss a game for Gloucester. Whatever the permutations, this punter is excited by the prospect of a special occasion and a fantastic atmosphere. I can’t wait.

Count the evening stars

I’ve owned my new iPod for a couple of months now but it feels like longer. I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to manipulate my loyal old Creative Zen and that’s just a little sad as I loved that machine. There are a couple of iPod features that appeal to my slightly nerdish outlook. I rather like the music quiz it offers, asking me questions about all the albums I have stored up in its mighty brain. I also appreciate being able to view, via iTunes, just how many times I have played every song. I couldn’t do that with my Creative although if I were a betting man I’d wager Seven Swans by Sufjan Stevens would have been the most played album on that fine but now deceased Zen. I’ve heard that fine long player just twice on my iPod – I just checked – but have heard a brace of albums no fewer than eight times each. Literally going from A to Z, I’ve listened to Art Brut (Bang Bang Rock & Roll) and The Zombies (Odessey and Oracle) most often. The former is a favourite of all the family and has been mainly relayed via my doughnut-shaped speaker that lives in the kitchen; the latter, a psychedelic pop smasher, remains a personal favourite that I often play through my headphones.

Like dolphins can swim...

I am taking a rest, a sabbatical if you will, from the marathon that is working my way through every episode of The Sopranos. I am well into Series Five so there are not loads and loads of episodes left although I sense that plenty of twists and turns remain. Currently, another TV show has captured my imagination, requiring urgent trips to Blockbusters to collect boxed sets to fuel a raging addiction. The series is called Heroes and I am bewitched by a cracking cast of characters and a plot so sharp and thought-provoking that the word ‘genius’ may be warmly whispered. Essentially, a number of ordinary folk discover they possess incredible powers and much of the storyline deals with how a NYPD cop copes with suddenly being able to read the thoughts of those around him and what an Osaka programmer does when he discovers he can both stop and travel through time. Darker and more sinister forces are at large – quelle surprise! – and, without revealing too much, the ‘heroes’ individually find themselves in peril from one of their own. Another key element to the show sees artist Isaac Mendez able to paint clear prophesies of the future (whilst under the influence of heroin…) forcing the main characters to race against time to save others, each other, and, heck, possibly the blinking world itself. I feel I haven’t sold this show too well but it is immensely clever, brilliantly written and contains sufficient depth to keep all hepcats hooting and hollering heartily. I salute.

Cultivation

Here is a selection of photographs taken today at Westbury Court Gardens. A party of Coles attended this National Trust attraction this afternoon. It proved quaint. There were some ducks there. And hedges.

Thought For Food

It wasn’t a case of ‘any excuse to get the family onto the Kingsholm Road’ but the Coles headed to that renowned thoroughfare last evening for a meal at Mangoes, a Thai café that sits opposite the famed rugby football union stadium. We’d heard fine things about the place and, without wishing to sound an utter Philistine, I had never tasted Thai food before. The food really was splendid. The adult Coles’ starter of various vegetarian treats was merry and came with two delectable sauces. My Thai vegetarian curry was temptingly tasty while the eldest Cole offspring dramatically announced to a hushed throng that his chicken dish involving noodles was one of his most enjoyable meals ever. The service was fantastic and our hostess was incredibly chatty and friendly, happily discussing our food and doing a sterling job for the Thai tourist industry with her exuberant monologues regarding the various charms of Thailand.

At lunchtime, the café becomes a sort of English establishment serving the usual sandwiches and fry-ups. Naturally I asked her – it would have been amiss not to – whether the Gloucester rugby players ever came into Mangoes and I was thrilled to learn that they all did, usually the day before a match, after the traditional ‘team run’ at the ground. With very little prompting I received all the lowdown on the lads and it transpires that (no surprises here) they are smashing blokes. Our hostess especially favours Marco (‘Very Handsome’), Mark Foster (‘Handsome and polite’) and Adam Balding (‘Very quiet and polite…comes in three or four times a week’). The young prince, Simpson-Daniel, quaintly referred to merely as ‘Simpson’, abhors tuna apparently. I got all the gossip about culinary choices and behaviour. It proved a fine evening of spicy pleasure and oval ball related small talk: what could be better?

Errata

Naturally there is no such song as West End Boys and my knowledge of pop history has been exposed most cruelly. Looking back at my choices from last week, I note that nine out of the ten artists are British and only the ‘Ab Four’ come from outside these proud shores. I hadn’t realised that I favoured home-grown acts quite so firmly but I guess it indicates an admiration for a British whimsy and wit and that’s no bad thing in my books.

I may as well cough up all my guilty pleasures. Another recent number hit smash I am especially fond of is Freak Like Me by Sugababes, a rampaging pop frenzy which, by a baroque coincidence, samples - rather merrily - Are ‘Friends’ Electric?, one of the hot ten listed on these pages last week.

Gravy

Here’s a pleasing picture of The Young Knives at the Guildhall taken by A2 and remitted to me via electronic mail. I thank him for it. I see the band is heavily tipped to play Glastonbury this year and, if I attend, I shall seek the fellows out earnestly. The Coles have pencilled in a trip to the Two Thousand Trees festival in July. This event won – or was shortlisted for – the best small festival in The Guardian last year. Art Brut, headliners this year, lure us; the sardonic tunesmiths remain the Cole family’s new favourite band. The Green Man roster is filling up sweetly and I am keen to witness The National, Beirut. Super Furry Animals, School of Language and Richard Thompson in the Welsh countryside, plying their musical trade with gusto.

I met a man who hails from New Jersey yesterday as I went about my business. My opening sortie to the fellow was misguided and unfortunate and, twenty-fours later, I regret my foolishness and am haunted by a soupcon of embarrassment. Not everyone from that state is an expert on The Sopranos as I discovered to my cost.

Toppermost of the Poppermost

I like what Word Magazine has done this month. The august publication – my favourite journal – always presents a 20 Best… and 20 Worst… list with a new theme each month. Previous ideas have been super heroes, cartoon characters and situation comedies but this month the best and worst number one hits have been discussed. As ever, it’s a very arbitrary list, full of fascinating opinions. There are a few obvious choices in the best list (Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush, Ghost Town by The Specials) but also one or two unexpected yet inspired selections (Mouldy Old Dough by Lieutenant Pigeon, Crazy in Love by Beyonce, Ride on Time by Black Box). I don’t agree with their pick for ‘best of the lot’ which is Human League’s Don’t You Want Me, a track I’ve always regarded as only the sixth or seventh finest song off Dare and a fairly ordinary melody and obvious lyric. The choices for the worst list are less interesting but still of huge entertainment value. Two superstar collaborations are justly caned: Bowie and Jagger’s ill-conceived Dancing in the Streets and McCartney/Wonder’s infamous piano keyboard/racial harmony metaphor, Ebony and Ivory. Of course Bryan Adams is knee-capped for Everything I Do; naturally Reg Dwight’s ode to a dull celebrity royal (deceased) is pilloried. The magazine opts for I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker by Sandi Thom when considering the worst chart topper of them all. I think I’ve heard that song once so can’t really argue.

Unable to resist, I present my ten favourite number ones:

Paperback Writer - The Beatles

I know dear S loves this song too. A really unusual subject matter and a most invigorating riff. Hurrah.

All or Nothing – The Small Faces

Steve Marriott at his urgent and soulful best. The most underrated British band ever?

The Name of the Game – Abba

Haunting, melodic and, er, profound.

Uptown Top Ranking – Althia and Donna

A soaring riddim.

Are ‘Friends’ Electric? – Tubeway Army

I was never sure why ‘Friends’ needed the inverted commas but it added to the mystery of an already atmospheric number from the Numanoid. Electronica.

Ashes to Ashes – David Bowie

Major Tom was real, wasn’t he? Unselfconsciously references Space Oddity and includes the line, ‘The shrieking of nothing is killing’ - two excellent reasons for its inclusion.

Ghost Town - The Specials

A chilling political statement. The scariest number one ever?

Tainted Love - Soft Cell

The perfect pop song with undercurrents of pure menace. Such a staple of sixth form discos at Gloucester Leisure Centre’s Cambridge Suite that I can almost taste cider and blackcurrant every time I hear it.

West End Boys - Pet Shop Boys

An original and compelling urban soundscape. Is this what London is like? I must ask D.

Pure Shores - All Saints

A taste of paradise. A fabulous, fabulous record.

It’s a shame that Petula Clark’s Down Town and The Kinks’ Waterloo Sunset only made number two as they are assuredly the finest singles ever. It is a controversial choice but my favourite number one of all the above is probably the shimmering beauty of Pure Shores. All comments are welcome. I used this site to help me decide.

The devil take your stereo and your record collection!

The Guildhall of Gloucester lured me effortlessly through its doors last week, not once, but twice. I suppose the theme could be described as ‘English whimsy’.

The Young Knives played on Thursday and kicked up a heck of a racket. Essentially, the combo consists of three rather intellectual (M informs me that the lead singer possesses a philosophy degree) and engaging characters who dress in sensible shirts and ties and engage in earnest and somewhat quaint conversation on stage. They also ‘bang it up to eleven’ and proffer meaty, beaty, big and bouncy independent rock music with notable tunes and wry and whimsically English lyrical content. They were rather marvellous and a capacity crowd at the ‘hall lapped it all up gratefully and gracefully. I hope they return soon.

On Friday, Acoustica beckoned with two acts I’d seen there before. Sweet Laredo proved a tight four piece playing jazzy and bluesy numbers with no little aplomb. Sarah Scott’s mighty and soulful voice belted out some satisfying numbers and reminded this punter of Amy Winehouse (without the tattoos, cigarillos, needles and potty mouth). The drummer was good. The main act was The Family Machine who took the ‘English whimsy’ baton from the Young Knives and ran with it with ebullience aplenty. Their songs about roadside floral tributes and childhood forays to the woods were heartwarming and charming, eccentric without encroaching into ‘silly territory’. They were fun and I salute them.

The next Acoustica features Ian McNabb and I can’t wait.

The rugby football proved a delight yesterday evening. Gloucester, a team I favour with enthusiasm, hosted London Irish, a team I do not. The home team vanquished with plenty to spare and, importantly, acquired the quartet of tries needed for the precious bonus point. To be frank, I had expected the Reading-based outfit linked to the Hiberian expanses to turn my team over. As often happens, a side that is depleted by international call-ups and injuries is able to raise its collective game and overcome more fancied opponents. This was the case last night: Gloucester seemed hungrier and – cliché alert – wanted it more. A number of young blades and fringe players put down markers for future selection. Dan Touhy, a youthful lock, particularly caught the eye on his debut, but Jack Forster enjoyed a gritty performance in the front row while James Bailey continues to impress at full back. I’d go as far as suggest that the former Bristol speedster remains one of the more underrated Gloucester players; he never lets his team mates down and I am yet to see him have a poor game in the esteemed colours. I wonder if Saturday’s win will prove a turning point in Gloucester’s fortunes this season; confidence has seemed a touch low in recent weeks and I hope a corner has been turned with this win.

A thriving, unspoilt market town

I have hardly posted on here recently and I apologise.

The Coles, with a sniff of spring in their collective nostrils, ventured to Newent this afternoon for a double header of watery thrills. First, we headed to Oxenhall, where the canal is being gradually restored, and, in particular, the lock. To be frank, I’m unsure what the intended end result for this stretch of water might be; it remains a lovely spot though. We then headed to central Newent – the ‘hood – for a gentle stroll round the town’s lake. It was just really pleasant to be outside for an hour or so. Here are three Newent pictures.

I’m appreciating the three albums I purchased from Amazon. I have hardly played the School of Language recording; it seems a challenging scamp and I need a day or two to really play it to death before it clicks. Vampire Weekend’s eponymous debut is a cheeky blighter, full of impish wit and toe-tapping zing. Some of the lyrical content is a touch clever-clever – does the world really need a song about an obscure piece of punctuation? – but I can’t help but admire the band’s energy and intellect. The British Sea Power’s Do You Like Rock Music is a work of admirable quality, a stirring collection of songs about, inter alia, bird flu and immigration, with earnest choruses and rousing sections galore.

Three Shipped Discs

It is halfway through February and I am yet to own a 2008 CD recording. Until Saturday that is. Or maybe Monday. It depends on the British postal system. I’ve made a bolt for it and frantically logged onto Amazon, debit card in paw, in order to purchase a trio of promising long players. It would be plain daft to proffer the readership of these august pages any meaningful review of said items as they, no doubt, remain languishing in some suburban warehouse unheard by these tender ears. However, with nine or twelve urgent and vaguely impatient clicks of the fingers, I have summoned the new one by British Sea Power, and debuts by Vampire Weekend and School of Language. School of Language is ‘im out of Field Music, a collective I admire. I shall report back.

Talking of future frolics, I have registered the married Coles plus eldest child (now ostensibly a 'youth') for Glastonbury Festival tickets. I am aware that this guarantees precisely nothing but with three computers on the go here and fairly decent broadband speeds at our disposal, I should hope for a clinically planned operation on the morning the tickets go on sale and, with a bit of luck, a trio of permits.

The Rebirth of Spool

Oxfam sells audio tapes. They cost 49 new pence each or a round pound for three. This represents a bargain and I am gradually amassing a whole stack of cassettes that I am playing in my automobile and enjoying vigorously. My motor car contains no CD player but I quite like playing tapes; in these days of MP3 files and those new-fangled compact discs (Whatever next? A process to record telecasts onto tape maybe? Jugs that you plug into the wall in order to boil water through the use of electrical magic?) I appreciate the link with the past offered by the use of cassettes. On Saturday, I spent my pocket money on Club Classics Volume 1 by Soul II Soul, Girls + £ ÷ Girls = $ & Girls (I copied and pasted that) by Elvis Costello and an antique punk collection called Twenty Of Another Kind that features one song too many by Sham 69 but is otherwise quaintly pleasurable. I’m sliding the Costello bobbin of sound into my ‘deck’ most often. It is a compilation from 1989 and contains nugget after nugget. Costello’s original version of Girls Talk is a poignant gem while Brilliant Mistake is a stunningly honest and superb number.

Last week I bagged Doolittle by The Pixies, Songs To Learn And Sing by Echo and the Bunnymen and Let Me Come Over by Buffalo Tom. Americana aficionado D is particularly impressed by the latter purchase: ‘Classic Tom’ read his texted response. Frankly, I’m looking forward to my next foray into the shelves of sound at the ‘fam and am saving up already.

Whistling in the Dark

Acoustica last Friday proved a bit of a curate’s egg. I had heard tremendous things about the first act, Vijay Kishore, from a couple of trusted sources and was anticipating something special as a result. The Birmingham-based singer-songwriter possesses a mighty and soaring voice with an incredible range and the Jeff Buckley comparisons proffered on the Acoustica home pages were, to a degree, apt. Howe’er, the expression ‘Nice voice, shame about the material’ rears its ugly, unwelcome head. The lyrical content offered little challenge and provoked less thought while, forsooth, I detected few melodies that made the heart leap. I certainly wasn’t whistling any Kishore numbers as I ambled earnestly down the historic Eastgate Street at evening’s end. Throw in to the mix a fairly taciturn and monosyllabic stage presence, a bewildering need to tune and retune after every song and a compulsion to continually, continually request less light (until I could barely make out the fellow in the gloom) and the frustration is complete. File under ‘Adequate’.

Luckily, the headliner, Kit Holmes, proved a pleasing antidote to her humdrum predecessor. She entered the stage, all hair and brightness, and proceeded to thrill with a sumptuous display of hugely impressive guitar playing. I suppose her set represented the quintessential ‘game o’ two halves’. Her guitar instrumentals, technically outstanding and rather bewitching, were interwoven among her endearing, poppy and pretty songs that, without setting the world alight, were entertaining and catchy. I admired her jolly ways too; her good humoured manner and ready wit proved welcome after the somewhat sullen Kishore. File under ‘Engaging’.

The rugby football proved a tad disappointing on Saturday. The Gloucester club of Gloucester were defeated at home for the first time in ages by the Leicester club of Leicester. Frankly, the number of players missing on both teams rendered the occasion relatively meaningless but I am pleased with the endeavours made by some of the city club's fringe players. James Bailey, at full-back, proved keen and alert while Mark Foster was an abrasive and tough-tackling presence at wing-threequarter. Young Jack Adams, enjoying a rare start in the midfield, caught the eye with more than one mesmerising, strong and speedy sprint through the opposition ranks. Gloucester’s deserved losing bonus point keeps my favoured team at the top of the league.

Giant Sand

Raising Sand by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss is a special recording. Here is a collection of a baker’s dozen haunting and atmospheric slices of Americana, enhanced by sparse production and exquisitely understated musicianship. The Plant fellow is on restrained form and the numbers benefit from his tender and thoughtful interpretations. Krauss possesses a beautiful voice, its clarity reminding me a little of - don’t mock - sixties song thrush Mary Hopkin. Both voices complement each other splendidly and some of the harmonies are ethereal, subtle and rather magical. Not one note is wasted; every second is exceptional. A pleasure.

Here’s hoping for fine weather this August. A trickle of artists has been announced to play this summer’s Green Man Festival. Super Furry Animals are headlining on the Saturday. Here is a band that has slipped under the Cole radar so I’ll be keen to examine the back catalogue before heading west with my inflatable double mattress. Richard Thompson is appearing too and will no doubt be commanding the ‘legend’ slot that the aforementioned Plant so superbly assumed last time out.

Discovery Channel

He’s a bit of a scamp at updating it regularly and numerous punters seem to be logging on just to mock his photograph, but I do admire Alexis Petridis’s weblog. This posting lavishes praise on the wonderful BBC 6Music show, The Freak Zone, but importantly hints at other aural delights available to those hepcats tuning into a variety of radio stations that exist away from the humdrum. As a result, in a Damascun style, I have been awakened to the enchanting and esoteric world of Resonance FM. The station’s brief is to ‘provide a radical alternative to the universal formulae of mainstream broadcasting’ and from what I’ve heard, it succeeds bountifully. Last night’s ‘Clear Spot’ show was a mix of splendid numbers, some poppier than others, interspersed with wry and pithy reflections distributed to the dudes in a deadpan and droll delivery. ‘Twas quaint. I’m now listening to a fairly experimental show called, I believe, Wavelength, that has, thus far, featured records being deliberately played at the wrong speed, some improvised jamming involving electric violin and flute and some poetry inspired by Morse code. There simply isn’t enough of this kind of thing on Severn Sound methinks. Unless you live within a 5km radius of London Bridge you can’t find the magic of Resonance FM (endorsed by The Guardian) by twisting the knob on a traditional wireless but this unique and unconventional station is easily available through the internet.

"Gloucester twinned with Altamont...."

Gloucester Guildhall is celebrating its twentieth anniversary in some style. A host of fairly decent acts are lined up to play the smashing and homely venue. I’m especially looking forward to smartly dressed art-rockers Young Knives in a month or two’s time and am heartened to learn that Icicle Worker, Ian McNabb will be headlining an Acoustica in April. Last Thursday, Art Brut came to town. I rather like this band. Their Fall-styled riffing appeals and complements some wry lyrical content which is half-sang, half-uttered, er Fall-style, by the charismatic (and slightly overweight) Eddie Argos. The band knows how to put on a good show. An energetic set saw Argos emerge into the crowd on several occasions, interact with ‘da kids’ heartily, and produce the proverbial 110%. Importantly, the songs were mighty fine. I only know the first album, Bang Bang Rock and Roll, which is packed with minor masterpieces full of acerbic wit and catchy tunes and many of these numbers were belted out with gusto at the Hall of Guilds. An almighty fistfight broke out amongst the aforementioned kids which put a bit of a dampener on proceedings and a good deal of human blood on the fabled sprung floor. I hope Eliza Carthy doesn’t have to witness such nasty pugilism when she plays the venue in May. I salute Argos for his Altamont comment (see title) although I’m sure it would have been lost on those loutish pumpions intent on punching. Fisticuffs aside, I enjoyed the evening; Art Brut lack a bit of depth I suppose, but what they aspire to do, they do well. I recommend them.

'W'

Gloucester 18 - Wasps 17

Afore the three of the clock kick-off time, I had resigned myself to defeat. A series of lacklustre performances, including last weekend’s rather stilted victory against Ulster – a whole province – had led to a pessimistic disposition and a furrowed brow. Wasps’ recent ejection from the Heineken Cup worried me too: an angered striped and buzzing insect oft spells danger. As it happened, the noble city club known fondly as ‘Gloucester’ performed admirably and with commendable passion. The bullish William James enjoyed a splendid match of chargin’, carryin’ and doin’ the basics extremely well. His colleague Gareth Delve aided and abetted in the strong-arm stuff superbly and it was marvellous to watch the scampering terrier Andrew Hazell back in action. The match proved almost to be the proverbial ‘game of two halves’. Gloucester’s half-time 12-3 lead edged upwards to 18-3 almost immediately after the orange segments had been devoured. Then appeared the long-awaited Waspish backlash, swarms of nasty attacks bamboozling the hosts, leading to a brace of well-taken tries. With a quarter of an hour remaining, the Kingsholm outfit led 18-17 and the hearts of lions were called for. Sterling defence kept the visitors out, especially five minutes from the end when a raid almost reached the tryline. A penalty awarded for – I believe – holdin’ onto the oval was cleared for touch, the resulting line-out was snaffled and a series of pick ‘n’ drives succeeded beautifully in running the clock down. The baying noise emanating from the popular side was mighty as a triumphant crowd urged its heroes to victoire. Hurrah indeed!

I'm in the Moog for Dancin', Romancin'

My current favourite album came free with Mojo this month. Slightly clumsily entitled ok_computer, this 15 track electronica compilation is a stunning collection of non-guitar nuggets. I’d suggest that this selection covers a whole range of bases from ambient and atmospheric lounge electronica to what I might well regard as, well, er, techno. It’s pleasing to listen to some old stuff that had strayed under the radar; I don’t think I’ve heard more than one or two John Foxx tracks over the years and the same could be said of German pioneers Tangerine Dream. Both their offerings here are sublime. I’ve read plenty of fine things about Swedish duo The Knife and the track Silent Shout is a brooding beauty reminiscent of early Aphex Twin and certainly a catalyst for me to investigate more of their work. Frankly, there’s so much gorgeous music on this sampler and if the intention was to turn listeners onto new acts, it has certainly worked. Who needs guitars?

Playing for blood as grandmasters should...

Bobby Fischer died last week. Reading the headline in yesterday’s Guardian – and I’m delighted it made the front page – was quite a shock. The chess champion's passing represents a rarity, a ‘celebrity’ (excuse the ‘c’ word) death impacting on me to a substantial degree. I suppose the disappointing aspect of Fischer’s genius was that very few could really appreciate it. While the genius of, say, Best, Clay, McEnroe and any number of writers and musicians can be dug by thousands and millions, the profound intellect of a chess maestro remains so immense that only a handful can truly claim to comprehend the subtleties. I know I couldn’t come close to appreciating his finest moments but I admired the charisma of the guy, revelled in the stories of those 1970s battles with the Soviet grandmasters and, despite a legion of unforgivable utterances and acts doing him no favours, couldn’t help but be drawn to any news piece or article featuring the fellow. My 60 Memorable Games by Bobby Fischer proudly sits on a bookshelf next to me now and I’m tempted to spend an hour or two soon, working through one or two of the great matches annotated therein, and striving to understand at least a little of the sublime acumen that underlies so much of Fischer’s match play.

I bought the Classic 80gb iPod yesterday and, after hours and hours of toil, have finally put all my music onto it. I’m quietly fond of the item already but feel I should have some brand new sounds to ‘christen’ it properly. I might download the new British Sea power album.

The sport was adequate earlier. Gloucester defeated Ulster – a whole province – by 29 rugby points to 21 rugby points. Although the home side managed five tries, the result was in doubt right until the end and I feel a tad underwhelmed by the whole occasion. I am aware that Munster – a whole province – will destroy the noble Kingsholm-based outfit in the quarter finals unless vast improvements are made to my favoured team. The key areas, for me, are the lines-out which stutter and embarrass and the pivotal role of outside-half where I am yet to witness any player (possibly with the exception of Walker away at Leicester) really ‘boss’ a game.