I can’t deny that posts have been a little thin on the ground recently.

This was thrown into sharp focus for me this week, when I got a message from Dirk of sexyloser fame, concerned at the lack of activity on these here pages.

I responded with my usual “I’m okay, just got a case of the can’t-be-arsed’s”, which is true.

At least I thought it was.

But I’ve been thinking about this for a few days now. And I have a theory. (Of course I do.)

See, I’ve never been the most prolific of bloggers, and I’m genuinely in awe of my peers who manage to post something every day. I’ve tried this: back in the early days of “lockdown” I determined to use my time well, and to try and post daily, and for a while I managed that, but I’ve significantly tailed off of late.

What’s tended to happen round here for the past few weeks is that I’ll post something on a Saturday morning, usually a rant about something the Government has or hasn’t done which has irked me, followed by the Late Night Stargazing staple, followed by….well, nothing. I haven’t even bothered to post a Country record on a Sunday morning for three weeks, and that’s something which has made me pause and wonder: is this the end?

Well, no. I still love writing these posts, love getting people to comment on what I’ve written, get a little buzz when I receive an email telling me that somebody new has started following the blog.

But I need to refocus.

Two things occured to me: firstly that I’ve got too wrapped up in having SOMETHING TO SAY, a point to make, that I’ve strayed a little from the original purpose of doing this: writing about and sharing (often what are considered to be rubbish) records I like, and making it okay for you to like them too.

So, from now on there will be fewer ranty political posts (Note: not none, just fewer) and more posts about me making a dick of myself, which are usually much more popular anyway.

Secondly, I think the whole working from home thing has got to me. See, before “lockdown”, it was simple: I’d go to work in the morning, come home at night and if I could be bothered I’d write something. Or, more often, I’d write a number of things on a Friday night which I would schedule to be published throughout the week. There was an obvious distinction between when I was at work and when I wasn’t.

But, whilst I’ve been a big advocate of, and really like, working from home, recently that’s broken down, and I think it’s because of this: currently, there’s no environmental distinguishment between me sitting at a laptop working, or sitting at a laptop writing any old guff that occurs to me to post here.

And so I’ve made some changes. I’ve bought a desk, and that’s where I now sit during the day, in my own office chair that I’ve had delivered from the office where I used to work, to do actual work.

The personal laptop now resides on the coffee table, but it’s no longer battling for occupancy rights with the work laptop.

It’s a small adjustment, but I’m hoping that it works.

So, that’s your little peek behind the blogger’s curtain.

“When’s he going to shut up and post a song?” I hear many of you ask.

Soon. Bear with.

But first, back to Dirk, as Amy Winehouse almost said.

It was very sweet of Dirk to enquire after my well-being, and there’s a reason for him doing so. For folks who haven’t been visiting my little corner of the internet for long, there’s good reason for his concern. Back in 2018 I had a spell in hospital after I was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism on my left lung (that’s a blood clot to you and me), and pneumonia on the right one (the first of these complaints is often fatal). My silence led to many enquiries as to where I had disappeared to, before I revealed (by way of the Comments section on here) where I was and what was wrong.

What this led to, on my (I hesitate to use the word discharge) return to normal life, was a series of posts detailing what I’d been through. I could link to them, but it woud just look like a shameless attempt to massage my figures here. If you’re interested, go back to the end of 2018 and you’ll see what I was writing about.

Without wishing to blow my own trumpet (stop it…!!), at the time, many people commended me on writing about my bodily complaints with such frankness, and I was a bit taken back by this at the time. I was just writing about what had happened and tried to make it as honest and as amusing as possible.

Men are traditionally not good at this. We don’t talk about stuff. Specifically, we don’t discuss ill-health or anything which might be wrong with us or our bodies.

Women, on the other hand, seem to have this locked down. They will happily discuss any problems they may have, when there are no men around.

Thinking about it, you can probably trace this back to our teenage years. Back then, all boys have is unexpected erections, unwanted night-emissions, and the self-discovery of ononism. None of which one would wish to bring up in fellow male company, for fear of having the piss mercilessly ripped forever more. Growing up was a competition, but not in terms of who was developing quickest – we all got to see who won that particular crown in the showers after PE – but in terms of who had managed to “go” furthest with a girl, even if that girl happened to be someone you’d met on holiday and who nobody else knew or would ever meet. Honest.

But the entrapment of our own bodies? No siree bob.

Girls, on the other hand, had the unifying teenage event of menstruation to talk amongst themselves about. They all went through it for the first time at round about the same time, and doubtless would have had it explained by their doting mothers (never, oh never the blushing fathers) as being a totally natural bodily function. And from there grew their ability to discuss, to accept, to nurture, traits boys never learned.

That’s right, I’m saying you lucky, lucky ladies with your lovely ability to bond over your monthlies, whilst us boys were left floundering, making juvenile jokes about who was still a virgin and whether there was a gun in your pocket or were you just pleased to see me?

I may have explained this clumsily, but I do think there’s a point buried there which goes beyond male machismo: for boys/men never really learn to discuss our physical problems, especially when they relate to an area of sexual sauciness, whilst girls learn to care and share at a relatively early age.

Since I grew up believing that no woman was interested in seeing my downstairs bits, let alone allowing themselves to come into abhorrant contact with them, I’ve kind of swung the other way (so to speak) and have no real issue with talking about “man problems”.

Which is why long-term readers will know who Little Jez is.

What I’m trying to say is I think it’s important that things like this are discussed openly. It’s just our bodies: we’ve all got them, and sometimes they play up, and letting people know when yours does might bright some hope and comfort to someone who might be experiencing the same symptoms, but dare not speak about it, or seek medical attention.

I’ll give you an example – and we may be getting into “things you don’t need to know territory” here, so look away now if you like.

Back when I was living in Cardiff, and living in the flat of filth with LlÅ·r, he came home from a works-do one night and confided in me that a lad he worked with had confided in LlÅ·r that he was about to have an operation to be circumcised, as he had a restricted foreskin.

It’s quite a common occurance in men, and nothing to be embarrased about. Go on, Google it. See? (Not on Google Images, you fool!)

And hearing those words, that another grown man who I sort of knew had the same problem as me, led me to say to LlÅ·r: “Yeh…I think I need to have that done too.”

I’ve had it done now, about ten years ago. Little Jez is even littler than he used to be. I used to make jokes about me wanting to appear an authentic Tottenham fan, but in reality all my friends know (because I don’t think it’s anything to be embarrassed about), although I must admit for a while I told people I’d been in for a (2nd) hernia op before I decided “What the heck?!?”.

There’s a rather amusing story about when I was recuperating at home following the operation that my mate Holmesy finds hilarious and always asks me to repeat; I’ve wanged for too long this time to include it here, but it will feature soon enough. Oh yes, it will.

But anyway: fear not! There will be some frank explanations about men’s bits soon enough, for shortly I’ll be going back into hospital for a short proceedure.

When I was still an out-patient after my stay in hospital, I was advised by one of the many consultants I’d seen that a scan had shown up several polypsis on my colon.

The consultant advised they were probably nothing to worry about, but that I might want to get them checked out. Or, to use his words, “We’ve had a look at you from every other angle, we may as well go up there too.”

And so this week, after much chasing and coercian, I had a telephone consultation with an oncologist from the hospital. He again said that it was probably nothing, but agreed with me that it’s probably best to sort it out now, just in case.

I had at first thought all that would happen was I’d have a camera inserted where the sun doesn’t shine, from which they would establish if any further action was required.

But no. It now transpires that I’m to have what the consultant described as “The Gold Standard”, which involves them going up and at the same time removing anything which needs to be removed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ll be heavily sedated. We’ll give you some really good drugs to ease the pain.”


“But first, you’ll have to evacuate fully”, he added, which it transpires means I have to take a shit load of laxatives and then, well, shit loads.

“Have you got an en suite?” he asked. Funny guy.

This will be happening in the next couple of weeks, so brace yourself for plenty of hilarious blog posts opportunities just begging to be mined there.

Until then, this (for the song title, if nothing else):

The Libertines – Up The Bracket

Yup. That was another post about me not wanting to make a point anymore, whilst making a point.

To clarify: from hereon in there will be less posts where I make a point, and more posts where I talk about a camera and a pair of surgical scissors being shoved up my bottom (at the same time), and all that comes with such events.

Or in other words: more soon.

Friday Night Music Club

Evening Dubious Records fans!

You’ll be relieved to hear that tonight is the last in my snappily titled “Songs With The Same Name As Television Programmes, But Which Are Not The Actual Theme Tune, Or A Cover Version Of The Theme Tune Of The Programme In Question” series of TV  themed posts here. You may even be as relieved as me, because frankly I’m bored of this idea now, so you’ll excuse me if I rattle through this lot, won’t you? Good.

So let’s start off with this little beauty:


254. Aztec Camera feat. Mick Jones – Good Morning Britain

Apparently there have been two versions of Good Morning Britain on UK television: one which ran from 1983 until 1992, and then, when ITV finally admitted that they have no ideas for original television left, they relaunched it in 2014.

I have to confess, I’ve never seen it, for one simple reason: it’s on in the morning. Faced with the daily dilemma of having an extra half an hour in bed, or getting up to watch Anne Diamond and Nick Owen (in the first incarnation), or Susanna Reid and Ben Shephard in the current run, well…thirty minutes of unfettered slumber wins every time.

Plus, phone-hacker (allegedly – Legal Ed), professional slimeball (yup, that’s fine – Legal Ed) and, worst of all, Arsenal fan Piers Morgan joined the team in November 2015, and I really don’t want to start my day by getting that angry.

Morgan recently hosted a two part documentary called “Killer Women”, where he interviewed women incarcerated for committing murder. Annoyingly, not one of them seized this golden opportunity, and he survived the shoot. Come on ladies, you have reputations to think about. That’s a definite “Must Try Harder”.

Now we dip our toes into the world of cartoons:


255. Dweeb – Scooby Doo

Hailing from Watford, and formed after they saw Bis in concert, this lot sound like a prototype version of Busted.Which may or may not be a bad thing, depending on your viewpoint.

Rumours that they released a far inferior follow-up single called “…& Scrappy Doo!” are yet to be disproven. Or investigated, for that matter.

And now for something completely different.


256. Palma Violets – Last Of The Summer Wine

I’m not sure what this song, other than sharing a name, has to do with the longest-running UK sitcom ever (airing for 31 series from 1973 through to 2010), which became a Sunday night staple for many, nestling in between “Songs of Praise” and “Antiques Roadshow”.

Want to know how funny it is? The most oft cited scene involved a pensioner sliding down a hill in a bathtub. Yup, that funny.

Time for a bit of a cheat. This next record gets the title ever so slightly wrong, and if I was being kind I’d probably say it’s because the correct title doesn’t really scan all that well. If I was being unkind, however, I’d suggest it was more likely that it’s because Pete Doherty was so off his face on horse when he wrote it, he had no idea what he was doing, the heroin-guzzling fool:


257. The Libertines – What Became Of The Likely Lads

Want to know how funny The Libertines are? (I mean intentionally, not unintentionally funny…) According to Carl Barât, in the cover photo above, Doherty isn’t actually wearing a watch. Oh you guys slay me.

The sitcom it tries hard to reference was, of course, one of the finest from the 1970s, “Whatever Happened to The Likely Lads?”, the follow-up to the 1960s sitcom “The Likely Lads”, and picks up the story of best mates Bob and Terry, played by Rodney Bewes and James Bolam respectively, five years after the original series ended, with Terry returning to the North East after a spell in the army, and finding that Bob is now married and settled down. It’s funnier than I just made that sound, honest.

It also has one of the loveliest theme tunes ever (although sentimentality may be clouding my judgement there), performed by a band who’s name makes them sound like a UK Eurovision reject from the 1980s, or a fictional act from Peter Kay’s Phoenix Nights:


Highly Likely – What Happened to You? (Theme to “Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads?”)

Actually, now I listen to it again, it doesn’t really need any more than just the chorus, does it?

 I think it must, by now, be Britpop o’clock:


258. Suede – Metal Mickey

When Suede first started releasing singles, they were near perfect, with the additional tracks as good as, if not better, than the A-Side, and this carried on pretty much until the moment Bernard Butler left. Coincidence? I think not.

Metal Mickey was the second single from their debut, eponymous album and so falls squarely in this purple patch. It also shares it’s name with a 1980s TV show; here’s the opening credits, with backing vocals provided by Steven Hawking:

Metal Mickey was a five foot tall metal robot who’s catchphrase was “Boogie Boogie”, and should not be confused with Twiki from “Buck Rogers in the 25th Century”, a four foot tall metal robot who’s catchphrase was “Biddlybiddlybiddlybiddly”. My grasp of futuristic robot jargon is a little ropey, so he sounded like this:

A change of pace now. The Wedding Present have a bit of a reputation for producing songs about relationships breaking down, but on their 1989 album “Bizarro” a different lyrical topic was addressed in “Bewitched”: stalking.

The lyrics are unsettling enough, but the music fits the subject perfectly; it’s brooding, menacing, it’s practically hiding in the bushes, going through your bins. It also displays perfect quiet-loud-quiet credentials, seemingly petering out with a whimper before exploding in what you hope is just an aural rather than physical assault.

Much as I bang on about what a great song from the same album “Kennedy” is (because it is, and I will doubtless bang on about it again sometime), “Bewitched” is just sublime and more than a little bit unsettling, a template for some of the songs which were to appear on the next album, the Steve Albini-produced “Seamonsters”.

Have a listen for yourself:


259. The Wedding Present – Bewitched

By contrast, “Bewitched” the 1960 US TV series told the story of a witch called Samantha trying to live the life of a suburban housewife. It’s theme tune could not be any more different to the aforementioned song with the same name:

Back in 1981, ABBA released their penultimate album, “Super Trouper”, and in the process scored their fourth of five consecutive UK Number One albums.

This was the lead single from it, also a Number One in the UK and, no matter what you might think about ABBA and the “Mama Mia!” franchise, it’s difficult to argue against this being one of the most magnificent break-up singles ever. Although I’m sure somebody will.


260. ABBA – The Winner Takes It All

Again, I’m allowing this as it’s title is really quite close to a TV show I remember from my childhood, a quiz show, hosted by Jimmy “ho-ho!” Tarbuck, the rules of which temporarily escape me, so just watch this, if for no other reason than to see just how much TV game shows – and fashions – have changed since 1976:

Ok, last record time.

When I was a student, when I wasn’t staying up late to watch “Get Stuffed” I’d often find myself watching the frankly ruddy marvellous “Married With Children”, which was like a live action version of The Simpsons, with hard done by father and shoe salesman Al Bundy in the Homer role. Here’s what nowadays would be called his best bits:

The show gave us two future stars: Ed O’Neill (who these days can be seen in smash comedy “Modern Family”) and Christina Applegate, who has turned up in so many great shows and movies, from “Friends” to “Anchorman”, it’s pretty hard to keep up with her.

So I won’t try to. I’ll just play you this, the final track from Oasis’ never-bettered debut album “Definitely Maybe”:


261. Oasis – Married With Children

And that’s yer lot. And yes, that is my idea of “rattling through” them.

Next week, I think we’ll take a break from having themes here on a Friday Night and just have some tunes to make your weekend. Deal?

More soon.

Glastonbury, So Much to Answer For (Part 4a)


Okay okay, I’ve been back for almost two weeks, I know, I know!

I had intended to carry on the Glasto posts in order, culminating in a review of this years shenanigans, but since the over-riding theme of the last three posts seems to be “I got off my face,I don’t remember anything”, I figured we’d pop the outstanding two in the back pocket for next year, and I’d tell you about this year instead. And then we can get back to something approaching normality round here. Deal?

There’s a second reason for this: 2015 was my first drug-free (except alcohol and nicotine) Glastonbury. Drink those words in. I did a whole Glastonbury without dabbling in any of the off menu items. Fuck you and your preordained reactionary opinions, Daily Mail readers!

Which means – I can remember what I did!! This is breaking new ground for this blog – knowing what I’m talking about. As a result, I have quite a lot to tell you, clips and mp3s to share, so I’ll split this into three posts: (up to) Friday, Saturday and Sunday. That’s the correct order, right?

Glastonbury opens its gates at 8.30 am (I think…shit, I’m already on shaky ground…) on the Wednesday morning before the festival officially starts.

Over the years that I’ve been going, and I make no claim to be a crusty dread-locked “been jumping over the fence for eons, mate” type, every year we’ve got there a little bit earlier. The last time I went was in 2010, and this involved a drive to the site early on the Wednesday morning, all rather leisurely, a country compilation CD blaring in the car, getting me in the mood, and no problems with finding a space to pitch our tents.

This year, we arrived on site at 01:30 hours on the Wednesday morning, to be greeted by the sight of an almighty queue, the prospect of joining it, and basically sleeping rough in a field for the night.

And so it was. We met up with the rest of the gang we were going in with – folks I’d never met before, but Llyr (Alun) had spent Glasto 2014 with, so I was happy to take his recommendation of camp-mates. Say what you like about him, but he can spot a wrong-un. And this lot quite swiftly showed that they were sound. A quick roll-call: hello Chad, Andy, Sam, Louise, Andrew, Cara, Dean, Lisa, Gemma and Emily. (Emily wasn’t with us yet – more of her in a bit). I think that’s everyone….kick me in the knees and call me a tool if I missed anyone.

Some of this motley crew were getting a few minutes much needed shut-eye in the van, while Llyr, Chad, Andy, Andrew and I stood outside, chatting. Every now again one of us would say “We may as well be standing in the queue as standing here, shall we make a move?”, to which the rest of us would shrug and agree we should maybe think about moving in a minute.

Ladies: this is why men should not rule the world. Rubbish decision makers.

Two hours later, we were still there, before finally we rallied the troops, got all our gear together and headed off to join the queue. By the time we met it, it was snaking down from Gate D, across and down one car park/field, back up the next, along the top and to us. Five minutes later, the length of the field we were in had been added to the ever-growing line.

And there we stood until around 6am, when suddenly we were on the move. They’ve realised, we thought, just how many have turned up and decided to let us in early. Otherwise, it’s a health and safety nightmare.

But no. We shuffled forwards about 100 yards before coming to rest again, and so the pattern was set for the next couple of hours.

Finally Gate D opened. By this time two things had happened: firstly, I had decided every one who wasn’t in our little party was an utterly irritating cunt, either too young and nubile (Pull your fucking jeans up so I can’t see your pants!!), or too old and fat (Just….stop being an annoying twat!!) to be safely allowed in my vicinity; and secondly, we had got to the part of the entrance which had been set up like a queue in the post office, a zig-zag affair, with a set of ropes guiding us in the correct directional flow.

Wait, ropes you say? The sort of ropes that can be ducked under? Well fuck queuing then, said the amassed throng (but quietly under their breath, more of a liberal murmer, a Guardian uprising, if you will) before launching headlong into an every man (and woman) for him (and her) self scrum for the gate.(I appear to have gone all “Life of Brian“….)

We made it in, through the throngs and to our pitch site. An hour or so later, we were all erect (insert Carry On “Oooh Matron!” Kenneth Williams type gag here).

Here’s the view from my tent…at 10.30am on the Wednesday

: 10298908_10153375572369707_2111667591620381303_n

Pretty full, isn’t it?

Tent up, I proceeded to try and grab 40 winks – a recurring theme throughout the weekend. I think drugless Glasto Me turns into Bagpuss. Anyway, I fell asleep, legs sticking out of my tent, the burns from which I’m still coping with.

When I came round, I found we had been joined by one other happy camper: Emily. Emily embodies braveness and technology to me. She had posted on Twitter that she was a single female, attending Glastonbury on her own, looking for some decent types to camp with, and Chad had replied, telling her she could join us. The poor girl must have been deluged by weird offers, but she chose Chad/us.

I can’t put into words how amazingly brave I think that is. I would never have a) thought to do it in the first place, and b) having received umpteen messages, made a sound choice about who to camp with. I probably would have given up on the whole human race and just lived in a ditch for the rest of my days.

There was no need to worry. Our new camp mates were an unbelievably sound bunch. The next few days were punctuated by a barbeque in the evening, and a cooked breakfast in the morning, all done in the clearing between our tents. I felt bad, having not brought any food to contribute to this British BBQ-Off (It’s only a matter of time before one of the main channels commissions it), but our hosts were having none of it, thrusting burger after bacon and egg sandwich after sausage in my face until I succumbed and ate something they had prepared. And damned fine it was too.

That night, after a barbecue and the first of oh-so-many samples of Andy’s home made vodka tipples (After Eight Vodka? He had it. And a salty caramel one. And a fruity one. The man is a vodka alchemist) we went for the first of many wanders, taking in the Park Field at sun-down:


(Beautiful, ain’t it?) before ending up at the Stone Circle to witness what until now I had only heard about but never seen: the burning of a straw effigy (owl? Phoenix? life-size depiction of George Osborne? Who knows!) and a neat firework display. Glastonbury 2015 was on.

Friday morning. (Thursday was a day of mooching, drinking and eating). Things were due to kick off on The Other Stage with some Special Guests, supposedly a mystery….but then this got tweeted by Tim Burgess of The Charlatans :


with a caption: “Guest Who?”. It may have escaped our attention, had it not been subsequently retweeted by the official Glastonbury Twitter feed with the added: “Tim Burgess is rubbish at keeping secrets”.

The Charlatans are one of those bands very dear to my heart, and this was to be the perfect Glasto opener – practically a Greatest Hits set from them. Sadly, much internet trawling (and…er…distraction…) has failed to find much in the way of sound or video clips of their rather wonderful set, other than this, someone’s hand-held footage of “One to Another”. Under grey skies, The Charlies got us all up and going, their set culminating in a typically wonderful “Sproston Green”. Don’t they get bored of ending with that every time, belter that it is?

Next up was me making the first of many bad decisions about who to see next. What I should have done was scuttle over to the Park Stage to see King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard (saw them at the Scala on Thursday, and I’m happy to report it was fucking mental!). Go see ’em, kids.

What I actually did was stay exactly where I was to watch The Cribs, in the vain hope that, having been a member of the band between 2008 – 2011, Johnny Marr might make an appearance, despite the obvious logistical issues involved with the fact he was playing in Hyde Park later that day. He didn’t but they did play We Share The Same Skies (punter audio again, I’m afraid, hence the appearance of what seems to be a wobble board, We definitely locked him up now, didn’t we?).

Next it was an upping of sticks to the Pyramid Stage to catch Alabama Shakes. Although with all the shenanigans with Foo Fighters having to pull out, a new act being added, and the consequent jigging about of schedules, we caught rather more of James Bay‘s set than I would have liked. Dull is too kind a word. I’d rather listen to the BBC Glastonbury i-dent music on repeat than sit through that schmozz again. Although I do appear to have just made up a new word: Schmozz pronoun, def: the sound of James Bay.

(On that note: can I just interject for a moment to apologise for some of the downloads featuring the BBC music sound-bite at the start? Most of them were ripped from their website, and to have edited them out…well,bear in mind it’s taken me 2 weeks to get this far, and you can imagine how long it would have been had I also attempted to lop that off the start of every clip too. Deal with it. Either edit them yourself or just cover your ears for 5 seconds)

And so to Alabama Shakes, who, greeted by the first rain of the weekend, provide us with a howling blues-centric set which, to my recollection, doesn’t feature Hold On, a tune I love to if not death, then certainly to a defibrillator and a resuscitation unit.

Next up, Mary J Blige. And more rain. Now I’m not a massive fan of either Mary J or the whole R&B sound as a whole, but blimey she was good. Here’s Doubt but I’d advise you to pop to the BBC Glastonbury website to see if they have her extraordinary performance of “No More Drama” there. I dunno if they do or not, I’m too busy typing to check.So dramatic was “No More Drama”, it seemed like an obvious show-stopper, I nipped to the Gents, and missed her doing Family Affair, the one song by her I truly adore. So, just for me, here it is. Probably with an annoying advert.

Now, Motorhead, and I am wet, and not in a sexy way. Warty leather clad octogenarians rarely have that sort of effect on me. Any more. Anyway, it’s Motorhead, what do you need to know about them? Here’s the one song we all know: Ace of Spades They do not usher on Girlschool to thrash through “Please Don’t Touch” and the world is a poorer place for it.

Next: baited breath. An unexpected extra act. Well, not extra, exactly, given the Grohl broken leg situation there was a massive hole to fill (and I don’t mean in Dave’s fibia). The Pyramid Stage DJ teases with us, playing Blur records and then Pulp’s “Common People” from 1995 (when they stood in for the damaged Stone Roses) before the additional band is revealed as….oh. It’s The Libertines. Are they still a thing?

I like four songs by The Libertines. They play three of them. Here’s one of them: Don’t Look Back Into The Sun NB I only like that as when I first heard it, the play-out sounded to me like the most obvious Wedding Present record that isn’t actually by The Wedding Present. It’s “Kennedy“, right? (Blatantly, I just want to listen to Kennedy). I hope Dave Gedge is getting royalties from it, s’all. (But not from me).

Somehow, we endured their whole set, before heading back to the tents to replenish booze supplies ready for our choice of headliner for the Friday.

What should have happened instead of The Libertines was Florence & The Machine, and then Foo Fighters. Whilst I’m obviously disappointed the Foos didn’t make an appearance, it did make my decision about who to watch as Friday night headliner slightly easier. When I saw the listing, I was gutted: Foos, Hot Chip, Super Furry Animals, and Billy Bragg all playing at the same was a real headache, a four-horse race unexpectedly narrowed down to three.

Of course, Super Furry Animals won. But as a panacea, here’s Billy Bragg & Frank Turner doing Levi Stubb’s Tears in the BBC tree-hut bit. Still gorgeous, after all these years. And Frank’s not looking too shoddy either.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen SFA over the years; having lived in Cardiff for 20 years we’re definitely into the twenties, and amongst all of those I treasure the most recent at Brixton Acadamy as the greatest (2nd place goes to seeing them playing in Brecon, having been evicted from the Jazz festival for being linked to drugs, like no jazz performers ever have been) – so tonight was always going to be a tough one to overhaul that.

They don’t manage it, in my opinion, stuck right at the back and unable to really see them as I was. But that’s not to say they weren’t utterly amazing: a below-par SFA gig is still a gig I’d crawl naked over a trail of broken glass, upturned drawing pins and something else quite ouchy, to get to. And Llyr and I have a thing we do when Slow Life kicks backs in again, a pretend drum fill, and it’s the first chance we’ve had to do it together for almost 10 years, so that was pretty special for me.

Anyway, here’s their full set, and apologies for the sound quality on Slow Life, for Do or Die ending more abruptly than it’s meant to, and for the occasional BBC I-dent soundclip:

Slow Life

Rings Around The World

Do Or Die

Hello Sunshine

Pan Ddaw’r Wawr

Run Christian Run

Hometown Unicorn


Juxtapozed With U

The International Language of Screaming

Golden Retriever

Recepticle for the Respectable (And a big shout out to Bob on the trumpet)

Mountain People

The Man Don’t Give A Fuck

And so ends Friday.

One final thing, as I bang on about live music: this weekend is the 30th anniversary of Live Aid. Fuck, that makes me feel old. Anyway, for a really nice piece on it, and some rather fine free downloads snaffled from the big day, pop over to Any Major Dude With Half A Heart. You won’t be disappointed.

Saturday 2015 to follow.