Crikey, that's some gap between posts. I must have been really busy or something.
Moving on, here's something for anyone out there who is nonplussed by Facebook and all those other sites that make you realise how antisocial you've become: Hatebook. Probably just as annoying but I love a good backlash. Right, back to ignoring everyone now.

Well worth your time, music lovers... local (although what that means in the age of the internet, I don't know) gentleman with bags of talent, Oliver Talkes at Sirius in Bournemouth.

I feel I should bring to your attention the wonderful blog of 'friend of this site' Mr Jonny Gardner and his 5-a-side football team. The match reports are certainly worth a read, although I can do without the photos of injuries at this time of the morning. Perhaps I should think about getting up later.

Tell them I sent you.

Chico Mendez & The Eling Allstars

Ladies and Gentlemen! It is my pleasure to announce the arrival of Chico Mendez and The Eling Allstars' myspace page.


Join the party. Catch the fever. I said catch the fever!

As promised, normal service is resumed.

There's a new track from the Kings of Leon on myspace (well, not mine but you know what I mean) and it sounds pretty damn good to me. Will probably divide a few people but the album should be worth a punt.

I discovered them.

READ ALL ABOUT IT. PLEASE.

Before I can move forward into my (not so) brave future there’s a few things I need to get off my chest. As I am unable to pay for any sort of meaningful or worthwhile therapy (assuming such a thing even exists – with apologies to my brilliant psychology graduate girlfriend, for whom I should make an interesting case study) this may turn out to be the best tool I have at my disposal. We’ll see about that.

I graduated a little over a year ago. First class honours in journalism, if you will, the only person to achieve that from my year (and nobody managed it the year before which makes me double great). I don’t mention this as a way of making myself sound clever (although I bloody well am) but instead as a device to throw my present situation into some relief.

(I promise that once this is done with we can return to the old ways of caustic cultural comment, stuff from the news and ham-fisted reviews of whatever crosses my radar. Humour me for now.)

Straight after university, I was in need of money – not a unique position for a recent graduate to find themselves in, I know – and took the path of least resistance back into the job I had studied so hard to escape from. A mistake, although clearly not the first, nor the last in this sorry little tale (fear not: it won’t end with me blowing my brains out. We’d lose the deposit on the flat and that would not be good). In my final year of study I should have been throwing myself manfully into finding out what I was going to do when I got out into the job market. Instead I got my head down and worked like a maniac to milk whatever I could out of the last months of the course. I digress. It’s often said that it’s easier to find a job when you’re working but that’s never panned out for me, particularly when you spend most of the week holed-up in some grotty B&B counting the minutes until Friday. Having said that, looking for a job when it’s all I have to focus my energies on has yet to yield much either.

Anyway, I put an end to that in December 2005 and took what I believe is called a hiatus. This lasted a tad longer than I had anticipated and consumed my meagre savings. Not to worry, as the arrival of spring heralded a new start (yes, another one but I say you’re allowed as many as you need to get these things right) and a new job with a local newspaper group based in lovely Winchester. The money wasn’t great (I was on a four day week) but that was more than made up for in terms of enjoying the job immensely. The papers may have been free and dominated by adverts, the office held together with Sellotape and the staff as dysfunctional a bunch as you could hope to meet but none of this mattered. I quickly carved myself a niche, taking responsibility for 80 per cent of the content (also known as – for CV purposes – running the news desk) as well as producing adverts as well as what they euphemistically called ‘editorial’ (much like the ‘advertisement features’ you see in most publications these days). And bloody good they were too, considering it wasn’t something I’d ever tried my hand at before.

I spent most of my days in the office wrestling with a load of Macs on the world’s most fragile network (don’t believe the hype about Macs not crashing. Not for a minute. There's more crashing than a banger race) and had enough freedom to get myself out and around the county hunting down stories, being conned into dubious photo opportunities and steadily raising the profile of our humble newspapers (three editions for ‘serving’ different parts of the area).

That I achieved so much in such a short time was even more impressive (again, humour me) considering the role had become vacant due to the tragic death of the papers’ previous reporter, one of the singularly most popular characters in the whole of Hampshire (that’s what it felt like). Big shoes to fill and no mistake, whichever way you looked at it. But I was getting good feedback from all over the place (not just my mum, before you ask) and building relationships – no, friendships - with my colleagues.

R (as we’ll call him) the deputy editor was a quiet man with impeccable taste in music and books, a musician of some note, gig promoter, top-drawer graphic designer, smoker of roll-ups and good guy to boot. Before long I was dropping him home every night, never minding for a minute that it added 20 minutes to my own journey home. We were in this together (sign post alert: this will become significant in time), teamwork and all that.

I landed the job in the first place through P (as he shall be known), something of a local celebrity (I did say ‘something of’) in my hometown of Southampton. Another musician of pedigree (the appeal here being that I am no mean guitarist myself), the eldest brother of a chap I went to middle school with and obscenely well connected. Before long I was driving him to and from work on a daily basis and discussing how to move the papers forward.

Of course, it wasn’t all sweetness and light. There were many late nights I didn’t get paid for and another colleague (B, for the record) who found me ‘annoying’. But you get that in any job (and I can be annoying, make no mistake) and as soon as the individual in question realised it was her problem the wrinkles ironed themselves out. But there were other cracks that I’d started to notice. Conversations between the directors that I was supposed to overhear (besides, I wouldn’t be much of a journo if I didn’t do my share of ‘listening in’) regarding big changes on the horizon, grumbling about R using work resources to forward his outside business interests, accusations of ‘blagging’ (missing the point that it forms the glue that binds PR and journalists, a topic for some other time) and more.

By this point, some six weeks in, I had a good handle on how the whole production was put together from the ground up. I surprised even myself with a hitherto unrealised Herculean capacity to soak up the mechanics of it all, all the while improving the content, the ‘voice’ and getting our brand out there (that sounds a bit like PR talk but we’ll let that go for now. Bill Hicks would have me shot like a dog in the street).

So, there we were, this newly-formed team of four, bruised and besieged but belligerent, never failing to get an issue out. It wasn’t to last. One Tuesday morning late in the summer the straw man began to unravel.

P was summoned to a meeting with the three directors (theirs is a profile for another day, perhaps another life). He hadn’t been expecting it and my former nemesis saw it as a Very Bad Thing, having some experience in this area. When P returned about an hour later he looked like a man in shock. He’d been suspended pending an investigation into alleged gross misconduct and left immediately, under instruction to discuss the matter with nobody. As an aside here, it worth noting that the directors were seriously under-qualified to carry out any form of investigation, unaware as they were as to the contents of their own desk drawers.

Next into the room of judgement was R, who faced the same fate and left with the same shocked expression. Quickly followed by B, who followed in tears. I went in too, only to be told that I wasn’t under the spotlight for any sort of breach of contract and I should go about my day as usual. I was quick to inform this kangaroo court that I had not been given - let alone signed – a contract. It was a small victory on a grim day.

It slowly dawned on me that there was a bigger plan in motion. I set about the task of putting the production in motion, somewhat bewildered myself and facing a huge task. We took it to the wire every week with a full team and here I was expected to do it alone. Within an hour of their departure, a hired hand arrived. All very pre-planned. I have airbrushed that particular prick out of my memory, but suffice to say had his contribution matched his self-regard we would have walked it. I ended up redoing everything he’d touched the following day.

I was very uneasy about the whole situation, to say the least. These people were my friends and here I was taking over their desks. I kept my professional head on and knuckled down to two long days of page-bashing, as we liked to call it. The fact that it all got done by deadline didn’t feel like the great achievement I’d hoped given the circumstances. After a couple of sleepless nights (well, not completely) I made the decision to not continue working there, on principle if you will. It was clear to me that this was a sort of coup by the directors. They’d worked out that they could still get their ad revenue and save themselves the trouble of shelling-out the combined wage bill of my three suspended colleagues (upwards of £60,000). I appreciate the financial imperative as much as anyone but this was back door shenanigans of the lowest kind. P had helped to found this corrupt little media empire and his treatment (based on rather trumped-up charges, as it transpired) troubled me greatly. On the following Monday I went in as usual, surreptitiously cleared my things into the car (McNae’s Law for Journalist, Essential English, dictionary, CDs, contacts book) went through the motions and resolved not to return the following day. That Monday was also notable for me sitting in on one the hearings. B had asked me to take notes for her and I saw this as a fitting way to bury our previous animosity for good. I even went home and produced a legal-style transcript for her. What a nice boy I am.

The powers accepted my resignation the following day with some disappointment. Hardly surprising: there went the best cheap labour they’d ever seen. But I’d done it: I’d quit the first job I’d ever really liked, finally having had the chance to work with creative, outgoing people then having it quickly ripped away.

I didn’t hear much from anyone for a week or so. P was still shell-shocked and seeking legal advice. I think he appreciated the stand I’d made and after much thought I certainly felt it was the right thing to do. I figured it would be a bloody nose to the tune of huge revenue lost if there was nobody to get that week’s editions out. Besides, by staying I would have been validating the treatment of my fallen comrades. What happened next would test my notion of solidarity to breaking point.

R got in touch a couple of days later. He’d gone in for his hearing the day I decided not to turn up. As it was, I hated the idea of him coming in for this final judgement and seeing me there, so I made sure I wasn’t. After agreeing that the whole saga was highly distasteful he casually mentioned that when he’d arrived in the office (ostensibly to resign with his reputation unblemished rather than stained by the coven of grasping directors) they had changed their minds and instead reinstated him immediately on a freelance basis and at a hugely increased hourly rate (the sort of money I would have gladly stayed for had I known – as I eventually discovered - that I was the only one making a stand).

Careful readers will at this point have realised that I had inadvertently engineered the position R had found himself in. Ce la bloody vie. Within a few of days the old team (minus me) were back at work. It seems unnecessary to mention that the only person not facing disciplinary action (no matter how specious) was the one out of a job. Yeah, it was my decision but I’d secretly harboured the notion that my display of solidarity would work in reverse. Wrong again.

A few days later and I’m picking through the wreckage over a pint with a friend. The same friend who had suggested that I shouldn’t act too rashly, look out for number one, you know the spiel. A pal of his joins us and recounts the tale of some idiot she’d heard about who quit his job on principle and ‘How very last century’ it all was. Definitely one of those moments where you don’t rush to claim ownership of the story. Still, nice to know it was a source of amusement. I pride myself on that last little twist.

There are so many lessons to be extracted from this saga that it’s hard to know where to start, but rattling this little lot out has been a good exercise in making some sense of it. If you think I should move on and ‘fuggetaboutit’ (adopting Sopranos tone) you’re right. But the legacy of this story is I now find my bouncing between depressing temp jobs, biting my nails and feeling sick every morning. And occasionally it’s not even a hangover that’s to blame. But I will be back. And better.

A cautionary tale.

Something worth reading for all you smokers out there.

To your right is a picture of me taken a few years ago when I had orange Gola trainers and a skinny jumper with red stripes down the arms (the collar is in fact quite accurate). Oh, and a massive left hand, which is much better now, thanks for asking.

On a completely unrelated note, enjoy the the most recent extract from Charlie Brooker's Ignopedia.

Continuing our uniquely unreliable interactive knowledge resource

Celebrity

A celebrity is a fellow human being who is better than you because lots of people know who they are. Everyone loves celebrities. Even people who claim to despise celebrities would, if they were honest, prefer to share a drizzly afternoon picnic with Kate Thornton than spend one more second in your revolting non-celebrity company.

If George Clooney called a globally televised press conference, then plucked out two of his eyelashes and announced he would donate them free of charge to the first viewer to turn round and murder their entire family, thousands would perish. Read that again. It is a fact.

Celebrities themselves are rarely evil. Several have talent worth celebrating. Curiously, this is rarely discussed in media coverage, which instead concentrates on how fat their thighs are in order to make regular people, driven to the brink of despair by their adulation of celebrities, feel momentarily better about themselves, and sufficiently robust to stave off suicide long enough to digest further celebrity coverage.

Any member of the public who voluntarily pays to read magazines stuffed with candid photographs of celebrities walking down the street clutching shopping bags is suffering from an acute form of mental illness that hasn't been diagnosed yet, but surely will if there is an atom of hope left in the world, because a civilian flipping through Heat in their lunch break is the human equivalent of a cow being stunned by a captive bolt pistol prior to slaughter - except the cow, at least, dies for a purpose.

More of this here.

What do Beanz Meanz? Another from the Oxford Street store.

This one speaks for itself (apart from to say that it was taken in a shop at the top of Oxford Street that was occupied by some odd and occasionally brilliant satirical art. Is there such a thing? Screwed if I know what to call it but that Banksy chap had something to do with it, you know the fella. I read that there was a message about the disappearing spirit of Christmas in the face of the ever-encroaching commercialisation of absolutely bloody everything, among others. You could also buy lots of stuff so they could hardly claim to be flying in the face of received capitalist imperialist dogma. Having said this, the Modern Toss greetings cards on offer inspired me to make my own from shamelessly downloaded images when I got home. So in essence I was sticking it to the man who's sticking it to the man. Right on.)

A very impressive slide at in the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern. We rode from the fifth floor. Strange sounds escaped from me without my bidding.

Apparently the fourth floor slide is faster - with a much longer queue - but I went after Mark Kermode (he refused the bump cap offered; mine fell off half way down - I suspect his greasy 'duck's arse' hairstyle lubricated the slide ahead of my turn) and it was a longer ride so I think we made a good choice.

Just doing my bit.

Next, our heroes mug it up for the camera in fine, half-arsed style. It was becoming apparent that we were unlikely that night to stumble upon a photo that shone a light on our inner artists, although to be fair it does say 'nicely toasted' quite eloquently. It'd probably look better cropped. But I digress.

Welcome back. I thought it was about time I got some new photos up here, including some of me and the band. So here we are.

First, we see Damian, Pete and Jeff decorated with icing sugar from some Turkish Delight that was knocking around. The adornment was my idea. I thought it would imbue us with even greater musical powers than usual and create an image worthy of our creative fury. We had swallowed a few drinks by this point (and failed to even so much as look at an instrument) so I think I can be forgiven for such mystical foolishness.

Remember that ad with the bouncing balls and the Jose Gonzales soundtrack? Here's the follow up, should you be interested. It appears that it's not done with CGI but real environmentally friendly paint. This means I'm going to have to apologise to those with whom I've argued that the bouncing balls from the previous ad were made on a computer (or computers) because they were real too. I am even more cynical than I believed.

I must be bored.

Comedy in the news

I haven't got time to comment on this article from the creator of Alan Partridge (and friend of this page) because I have to go to work. But it's well worth your effort.

In the news

Troops in Afghanistan take the high ground.

OTTAWA (Reuters) - Canadian troops fighting Taliban militants in Afghanistan have stumbled across an unexpected and potent enemy -- almost impenetrable forests of 10-feet-high marijuana plants.

General Rick Hillier, chief of the Canadian defense staff, said on Thursday that Taliban fighters were using the forests as cover. In response, the crew of at least one armored car had camouflaged their vehicle with marijuana.

"The challenge is that marijuana plants absorb energy, heat very readily. It's very difficult to penetrate with thermal devices ... and as a result you really have to be careful that the Taliban don't dodge in and out of those marijuana forests," he said in a speech in Ottawa.

"We tried burning them with white phosphorous -- it didn't work. We tried burning them with diesel -- it didn't work. The plants are so full of water right now ... that we simply couldn't burn them," he said.

Even successful incineration had its drawbacks.

"A couple of brown plants on the edges of some of those (forests) did catch on fire. But a section of soldiers that was downwind from that had some ill effects and decided that was probably not the right course of action," Hillier said dryly.

One soldier told him later: "Sir, three years ago before I joined the army, I never thought I'd say 'That damn marijuana'."

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

That's better. Here we are, apparently on the brink of armageddon once again, just like the good old days. As if we haven't got enough to worry about. Still, lots of interesting stuff on the subject here for your reading pleasure. Wikipedia's entry on nuclear warfare is worth a look. In the spurious interests of balance I should direct you to these 'facts' refuting the potential ills of nuclear war. It's from something called 'Fort Freedom' which has vomit-inducing connotations in itself and was apparently written by some rabid anti-communist republican type. It all reminds me of a book I once had called 'Nuclear War: The Facts' in the 1980s, which was full of useful tips on how to build your own shelter at home. And yes, hiding under a table was considered a good idea. I'll try and dig it out when I get back from stocking up on bottled water and tins of corned beef.

More YouTube goodies, this time from Adam Buxton, who is part of Adam and Joe. He's the Adam part and his site has some amusing stuff on it. I'd say 'content' but that makes it sound like McDonalds. It's much more DIY and none the worse for that. He's recently done some really funny features on Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe on BBC4 which has me laughing until I have to stop, or something less funny comes on. AB provided a spoof director's commentary-style dissection of the late night ITV 'quiz' show featuring former-Big Brother-winner Bryan Whatever. I'll try and hunt it down. You probably had to be there.

Afternoon!

This afternoon's offering comes from that notorious time-gobbler YouTube, from the mind of the always-brilliant Armando Ianucci. (I apologise if this first draft spelling is wrong, although I very much doubt he'll be reading. In fact, as an aside, I think I've finally worked out what this blog is for. Let's face it, the paucity of comments means even the loyal few have deserted me. And I can't really blame them. So it's not so much about what I write, the occasional pithy commentary or ballsy cultural review. Nor is the purpose of the work done here at bloodygravity to illuminate the wonderful corners of the web and signpost them for us all. Well, maybe that is the point, but my point, at least at this point - if I may point this out - is that it one day it may come into play as an insight into the way I was thinking or even attempting to keeping thoughts at bay. On any given date in the last three years or so. In fact, looking back over some of it and this holds water. Unlike the seive I recently bought. Leaked like a seive. Very disappointing.)

Anyway, after that considerable digression, follow that link from above (no, not heaven or the sky) and you can see just how little political choice we really have in Britain today. Britain today? Don't get me started. That'll have to wait for next time.

REVIEW: Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Qu'ran

The new season at Southampton's Nuffield theatre is out of the starting blocks. Last week Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt's whimsical play Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Qu'ran (translated from the French original by Patricia Benecke and Patrick Driver) made a welcome appearance after a successful run in Edinburgh and London.

Moses (James Daley) is a Jewish teenager struggling along with an unhappy father in 1960s Paris. When wrongly accused of stealing money by his father, he decides that he may as well live down to his reputation and starts pinching cash to fund his precocious trips to the local red light district. When he gets caught shoplifting by Sufi Muslim Monsieur Ibrahim (Sam Dastor), the wiley old grocer offers Moses the paternal affection and guidance he lacks. An unlikely friendship blossoms as the two embark on a series of minor adventures and discussions that shine a light upon both their lives, forging a strong bond despite the adolescent surliness of one protagonist and the old-fashioned reserve of the other.

Both actors deliver fine, engaging performances, full of warmth, humour and humanity. At one point, Moses muses that 'Jews, Muslims and Christians had many great men in common before we started hitting each other over the head.' Certainly, there are lessons within but the script never gets bogged down with preaching. To criticise the narrative for its oversimplification of the issues of age, race and religion is to miss the point: central to this play is what the characters share, not what divides them.

It would have been good to discover more about Monsieur Ibrahim, to have more flesh on the bones, as it were. Having said this, the performance comes in at a lean 70 minutes and proceeds at a brisk pace so this is a mere niggle rather than an accusation that the play lacks substance.

Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Qu'ran was made into an acclaimed film starring Omar Sharif in 2003. The staging at The Nuffield was confined to a single set with inspired use of lighting, but the dynamics of this slight, uplifting piece are really all about character and dialogue.

A tender, funny and timely production.

REVIEW: Concrete Jungle Boogie (08-07-06)

Jools Holland’s Rhythm and Blues Orchestra rolled their wagons into Southampton Common, the great expanse of green in the heart of the concrete jungle, on Saturday night. And what a night it was. Damian Cook was in the middle of it.

Arriving at the Common, the set-up seemed terribly civilised. Picnics abounded and a genuine festival atmosphere pervaded the unseasonably chilly evening. My, my, it certainly wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll, but I liked it. There was a proper, reasonably priced bar with tables, friendly staff and all the trimmings. The organisers had even laid on flushing toilets with doors that locked. And rightly so, what with the ticket price approaching the £40 mark.

As I tucked into some splendid organic honey ale and attempted to eat my body weight in hummus (as I believe is the done thing at these events), Christopher Holland tried to warm up the crowd with his piano playing and vocal stylings - uncannily similar to brother Jools’ - with a few Squeeze and Ray Charles numbers. Perhaps he’s not blessed with the best set of pipes but his solo set served as a pleasant introduction and seemed to go down well.

Onto the main attraction. Jools and his band took to the stage to thunderous applause and as the first note was played the vast majority of the punters leapt to their feet and stayed there for the duration. Boogie woogie indeed, ladies and gentlemen. It may not have been the warmest night of the summer so far but nobody seemed to notice. Making my way to the front of an increasingly animated (and, by now, well-oiled) crowd, it was clear to see that the band genuinely love what they do. The Rhythm and Blues Orchestra isn’t about stars or unnecessary bells and whistles. What you get is great tunes, astounding musicianship and a real good-time feeling.

The sound quality on the night was exceptional and did justice to the stunning voices of guest singers Sam Brown and “British soul sensation Ruby Turner” (Jools’ words but I’m not going to argue with him).

It would be wrong to end this without commenting on Jools himself. We all know about his piano playing, but to hear it live through a top-drawer PA is truly impressive and his amiable on-stage persona ensured that the party atmosphere never faltered. Even during the inevitable drum solo.

An eye-popping firework display rounded off a great evening that even the most jaded of cynics would grudgingly admit to having enjoyed. I count myself among them.

Friday Round-Up

Let's have a round-up, shall we? So much culture to share, of both the high and low varieties (OK, just low then and therefore NOT SAFE FOR WORK!). How about this affectionate tribute to the action comics of my youth to start off? Be warned: some of the language contained renders this NOT SAFE FOR WORK as I mentioned earlier. It is funny though. In a childish way.

A blog entry about the evils of Maggie Thatcher from the nice people at The Gallows? Here you go. They write funny things.

There is so much to see at the home of themanwhofellasleep you really won't know where to start. Tres amusant. I was immediately charmed by the title bar which says: "Three men walk into a pub. They are instantly killed," which says something about me. The links at the bottom of the page are from the top drawer (if you want my opinion which is, as I've said before, what you get here) and you shouldn't be surprised if a lot of them end up on this page somewhere.

Like here, for example. This link is probably a bit obscure for most of my beloved readers. It's devoted to retro gaming and things like the ZX Spectrum (a very early home computer that I owned and loved dearly) but I'll put it here all the same. There's an emulator so you can relive the days of rubbish games. Rose-tinted specs not included.

You want more? Go here for a nice bit of satire.

Allow me to finish with a moan. Today: NME.com. Considering its high standing in music circles why is their website so lame? Almost nothing works (for me anyway) and I can never find anything I'm after. I assume they're worried about the online presence eating into their circulation. Whatever, no time for a rant today - and besides it seems a bit trivial - but vote with your feet and don't visit them until they respond to my numerous anonymous complaints. Never liked NME anyway.

REVIEW: The Cult @ Southampton Guildhall 19-09-06

Cards on the table time before we get started: The Cult were one of my favourite bands when I was growing up, a process that I should admit is still very much ‘ongoing’. So it was with no little excitement that I greeted the news that they were playing in my home town after years apart. I may be well into my thirties now but I still have affection for the music I loved in my teens. Hopefully it’s not just me.

In fact it’s definitely not just me if the crowd at the Guildhall were any indication. It wasn’t too hard to spot numerous old rockers, a good handful of Goths in full regalia (they just can’t let it go) along with the usual indie kids et al. The Cult always did attract a diverse audience.

And so to the gig. Southampton Guildhall is not renowned for its acoustic qualities - much like the majority of similar municipal buildings in this country – but the last couple of years have seen marked improvement. Until last night.

Let’s start at the very beginning. There was no support band. This wasn’t an issue in itself as I assumed the main attraction would want to play a longer set. Instead, the band arrived on stage at 9:20 PM. For many that had meant at least an hour of waiting around in what is hardly what you’d call an inspirational space, at the mercy of the horrendously over-priced, over-packed bar. If this already sounds like a whinge then bear in mind that the tickets cost £22.50 (mine was free but that doesn’t mean I have to lie). That’s a lot of money for just over 90 minutes of music.

And that’s the reason we were there: the music. If I had another card to turn over it would say ‘Shoot the sound man/woman’. If this sounds a bit strong then I apologise but even the band knew something was rotten. Cool-as-ever (if that concept has any meaning when you’re his age) guitarist Billy Duffy asked if anyone could hear a humming coming from one of the onstage amps. The answer was ‘yes’. Within three songs I was questioning my desire to stand any more of the frankly hideous, muddy screech coming from the PA system.

They’d had all day to soundcheck. Perhaps the delights of ‘the south’s premier shopping destination’ were just too much for band and crew to resist. At this point they were probably regretting not having any support, as everyone knows that opening acts are only there to allow the engineers to refine the sound thereby making the headliners sound good. Ian Astbury’s voice – before tonight one of the most distinctive and powerful in rock music – was, for the majority of the gig, reduced to an anonymous howl, enveloped with distortion and feedback and often drowned out by Duffy’s guitar wailing.

Luckily for all, the material still stands up (although I appreciate that nostalgia may play a role here). The band wisely drew the majority of the set from their 1980s albums, the shimmering Love, raucous Rick Rubin-produced Electric, and larger-than-life Sonic Temple, with a nod to 1984’s Dreamtime in the form of Spiritwalker. An acoustic version of Edie (Ciao, baby) seemed slightly half-baked but a full-blooded Fire Woman was as barnstorming as its lyrics are dumb, the naiveté of Revolution and Rain was oddly charming while the rock stomp of Electric was exactly what most of us were there for (Peace Dog and Love Removal Machine, anyone?).

Astbury is still a great frontman with bags of attitude and a new-found resemblance to Jim Morrison – no doubt as a result of his role in the recent, litigious resurrection of The Doors. Questioning the crowd’s early lethargy he kept saying: “Come on, wake up for f**k’s sake. It’s The Cult!” while Duffy offered that gigs like these were “as rare as the Yeti”. They had a point though, as the Southampton crowd was customarily stationary. Perhaps they were busy clamping their hands over their ears.

The sound improved towards the end. Not hugely (my ears were shredded by then anyway) but enough for inevitable show-closer She Sells Sanctuary to deliver something of the warm glow I’d been hoping for all night. Then the band finally got the response they were after and even looked, dare I say, strangely grateful.

COMMENT: Let me get this straight...

#1. Pope makes speach appealing to reason and nonviolence... uses a quote that is probably not the smartest to use.

#2. Muslims take his quotes out of context and get angry because they think he called them and their prophet violent....

#3. So to prove everyone wrong... they carry around signs calling for muslims to "behead those" that insult them... and then they shoot a nun in the back, kidnap a priest, call for the assassination of the Pope... as if this will show the world how mistaken the Pope was? Good thing Islam is the religion of peace... otherwise there might be violence.

Am I the only one who thinks this is ridiculous? (with thanks to the ever brilliant mediawatchwatch for the image. Go to the site and read the entry from 18 September for more insight.)

Bestival 2006: Episode IV: some hope

The last hurrah of the summer was for me the only hurrah of the summer. For that reason and others Bestival 2006 was going to be a weekend with no barriers. Early in the day it appeared that - subconsciously at least – I intended to apply this maxim to the letter when I very nearly crashed the car into a barrier in a supermarket car park in Newport. Still, onwards and upwards.

Allow me to get a bit of a moan out of the way before we continue. It must be said that the early signs were less than encouraging. At 10AM - when the gates were due to open - cracks started to appear. These subsequently widened into great yawning chasms as online and telephone bookings went missing, the organisers (a term to be taken lightly as they were already 30 minutes late when the house of cards began to tumble) decided to re-label the windows that punters had been queuing in front of for over an hour before realising that there was no power to fire up their computers. This was all rather immaterial as the printer had gone into meltdown the night before in the middle of spitting out a list of all the names of the ticket holders. Surnames from A through M, join the crush. Everyone else… er, we don’t know. Wristbands arrived. The wrong ones. Guest lists arrived. “No, the blue folder… Not that blue folder… Oh dear. This is the last thing we wanted to happen…” These were the last words I heard as I nabbed my wristband and attempted to make my pilgrim’s progress.

Squeezing through the smallest imaginable gap with a significant amount of luggage (is that what it’s called at a festival?) involved clobbering anyone and everyone clamouring at the ticket windows with tents and all manner of related paraphernalia in order to make your way to the festival gates proper. This was where the real problems began.

Once through the security checkpoint (actually two trestle tables manned by disinterested but amiable guards) we were confronted with a 70 metre downhill slope so steep and treacherous that you’d have thought twice about tackling it un-laden, never mind with all the trappings (rucksack, tent, sleeping bag, enough wine to keep 30 people smiling for a month, cider for the same, fancy dress costume, changes of clothes destined to remain unworn etc). Fellow Bestival-goers were approaching this mini-Matterhorn with large trolleys, wheelbarrows and anything with wheels they were able to drag out of their sheds. Many visibly struggled to stay in control of their improvised wagons and I certainly didn’t fancy my chances should one of them become a runaway train. Later on, reports circulated of twisted ankles and broken legs and, while this may have been a case of Chinese whispers, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was true. (A security guard told me on Sunday that five people had broken their legs, although I’ve been unable to get confirmation of this. Probably best hushed-up if it was true. The last thing you want at a festival is the Health and Safety Executive: they have a way of putting a dampener on things.)

No barriers and broken limbs. Luckily for all things improved immeasurably from this point. (to be continued)