Clare Grogan, Tommy Cooper & Peter Sellers

The streets of London may not be paved with gold but the floor of my bedsit most definitely is. I put eight empties in the bin, swap the pint of milk for a can from the fridge and bite into the pie.

It steams and scolds the roof of my mouth. The dryness is nice.

Really nice. The beer is so cold it hurts and then I am at ease. My hands stop shaking. I relax. Even think of Ranvir. And then think of Jenny and then Claudette. I am at one with, if not the world, then myself.

I must have dozed off as it is now gone twelve. Joe knocks the door. The phone is for me. It's Gal and we are now going around Islington this evening. Seeing Az after the Arsenal. Few beers, chew the fat, talk about football and training shoes. Girls and grog.

Politics and pettiness. Clare Grogan and The Raincoats. Post-punk princesses. Radical haircuts and Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher.

Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher. We hate that woman. She is the devil incarnate, the Highgate Vampire arisen, the evil woman!

I shower, slip on a Lacoste polo, a pair of jumbo cords, my Borg Elite and a leather and lock the door. Joe is still vacuuming the stairs. He is so fucking cheerful - the old queen. I walk to the bus stop and jump the 134 into town.

Past the woods and by The Woodman pub. I saw Tommy Cooper in there during the week. He was wasted. Absolutely fucking wasted.

Couldn't stand up. Couldn't speak. His missus was just the same.

Irishmen saying "Just Like That" and laughing. I kept my head in my Guinness and Guardian.

Down Archway Road under Suicide Bridge. I think about suicide. I think about suicide a lot. Then again I think about football and fucking a lot. But I always think about suicide when I go under the bridge. Peter Sellers once saved somebody's life on Suicide Bridge. And when I've stopped thinking about Peter Sellers and Tommy Cooper we are at the Archway Tavern and I'm thinking about Ray Davies and all the other Muswell Hillbillies. Me, and all the other Muswell Hillbillies deep in thought on the 134 bus.

I get off at Camden and look at Japanese tourists in the market. Tat and tourists. Student girls and art school arrivistes. Punk rockers and geezers. I walk to and through Regent's Park. It's fucking beautiful. My head is clear. Black boys in gold belchers and Gabicci check my shoes. I swagger that northern swagger that these cockney boys don't understand. I reckon I'll be on my toes in a minute but thankfully they are more interested in putting their hands up their girls' sweaters.

The Mudhutter 16 online now

"We want all you skinheads to get up on your feet
Put your braces together and your boots on your feet
And give me some of that old moonstomping"

And welcome to the 44-page July issue of The Mudhutter
Inside we have an exclusive interview with Paul McDonald - the author of the hilarious Northern Soul book Do I Love you?, we revisit The Doors, chew the fat with Fern Britton and are blown away by Ben Johnson's Liverpool Cityscape. There's political comment, a set of Orrible Ives, dewy-eyed and not so dewy-eyed reminiscences, great websites, arty jazz mags er sorry coffee table books, sport, girls and of course the obligatory mention of rubber-soled footwear.

Enjoy it all, let your mates know and we'll be back in a month's time

Download below

http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.33

Fleet Foxes - Cunningly magnificent

NME is telling me that Glasvegas are "the best new band in Britain". That may or not be the case but one thing is for sure and that is that British music is on it's arse!

Unfortunately it cannot light a match to the stuff coming out of America at the moment and the first item of evidence for the prosecution is the stunningly beautiful eponymous album from Fleet Foxes.

The five piece from Seattle don't reference that city's grunge scene more the incredible melodies of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young versus Fairport Comvention.

Melody is the key. Well that plus great lyrics, perfect instrumentation and gorgeus vocal harmonies. In all honesty it is just a perfect pop record in the old sense of the phrase. Just magic and it will be on the headphones for the next month until The Hold Steady's next release.

Proving without doubt that it is beards, booze and scruffy clothes that wins the day over the tedious white pumps, skinny jeans and crappy pop that the appalling NME keeps telling all the kids in their tedious white pumps and skinny jeans... Oh you get the picture.

Fleet Foxes - just beautiful

HAPPY 30th BIRTHDAY – There’s a darkness on the edge of the town

Between the Springsteen albums Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town there was punk rock, which was very handy. Bruce’s dispute with his record company led to a three-year hiatus that meant us punks didn’t need to fret about adoring an American rock star. Not that he was mega by then – that was to come later – but he wasn’t punk was he?

Well in fact he probably was but… He was back with an album that not only matched the previously album but pushed his music further along as he got right into the heart of blue-collar America. Darkness on the Edge of Town is as it says on the tin. A dark album that explores the Badlands of factory lives and loves of normal Americans just as Reaganomics begin to kick in.

The album that was released on June 1 1978 is indeed dark but it is also absolutely heart achingly beautiful. It gets so deep into the soul that the joyous tune of Candy’s Room is a welcome relief after the harsh, powerful opening three tracks but that is only temporary as Racing in the Street – a song that only Springsteen could pen – is anything but fast and dangerous. It is a mournful lament that almost has you believing that he has almost give up on the open road that was so much part of the allure of Born to Run. You fear for this troubadour of the streets. This guitar hero that lets Roy Bittan’s piano close the song and side.

Of course ‘sides’ are relevant to vinyl and although the album has been issued as a CD and there may even be a 30th anniversary issue due – I don’t know – but it needs to be played on vinyl. For as you flip the record over – just when you thought Bruce was doubting his vision the opening track has him telling you in no doubt that he believes in the Promised Land.

And with that song the glorious second of side of this record takes to life. Factory is the greatest song about the drudgery of work that has ever been written. Again beautiful is not too strong a word to describe the lyrics: “End of the day factory whistle cries, men walk through those gates with death in their eyes.” But of course it is not just about work; it is about his father and his family and the things that really matter.

Back on the Streets of Fire and with him going out to Prove it all Night this cinematic album is brought to a close with the epic title track.
It is a truly stunning album. Musically it is pretty near perfect and you can hear the three years of dispute and frustration being captured in the studio with all the rage it deserved. The E Street band and Springsteen are on top of their game and while they are still furrowing the same territory – still on the streets, still political - with varying degrees of success – thirty years ago, this June, this album was essential. And you know what it still is!

This article originally appeared in The Mudhutter 15 for more details see:

www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk
www.themudhutter.blogspot.com

The Lovely Eggs

From Lancaster are just great.

Thin line between genius and crap but hey, lighten up and fall in love with I like birds but I like other animals too

All-sported-out

From the cricket to the Moto GP, through the French Open tennis,
Aussie rugby league, two games of football whilst switching channels
to watch Lewis Hamilton fuck it up in Canada. Meanwhile outside the
sun shines…

There’s three weeks of this. Three weeks watching football – minus the
home nations. Three weeks of trying to spot the person without a
replica shirt in the crowd while wishing the camera would scan on to
some Eastern European beauty. It’s summer so it’s summer in front of
the box.

Add into this the television coverage of the rock festivals, more cricket,
more tennis and you really don’t have to leave the house. Well the
sun’s no good for you – if it shines and why walk in the rain?

But for now it’s the European championships and football – our
beloved football. England didn’t qualify which of course was the best
news of all. That comment is not born out of a lack of patriotism but
more a total grasp on reality. McLaren – the ex-England manager –
had to go and failure to qualify meant he was away – with the fairies
and the football-unemployed.

Over to Fabio to sort it out or fuck it up. However now is not the time
to ponder such matters. Now is the time to watch other countries
hooligans throwing plastic chairs and time to look at players your team
may buy. Time to be a bloody cyber-know-it-all. Also it’s the moment
to wonder whether Hansen, Sharer and O’Neill ring each other up to
ask: "What you wearing today?" – as they sit in almost identical
striped shirts.

The BBC does it well, though. Even if Motson may be err… slightly the
worse for wear he isn’t the ubertwat that Tyldesley will always be.

So I shall sit back, check out the different teams’ kits and chicks.
Dodgy haircuts and even dodgier backpasses. Nationalism and
patriotism. Corruption and colloquialisms. Just the normal stuff: all-
sported-out.

And then there are the rugby union tests in the southern hemisphere.
The second-strings playing in the Churchill Cup in the gloriously
beautiful Ottawa in Canada, more Eastern European beauties – this
time in SW19. Throw in your team’s new kit and new fixture list.
Friendly matches in foreign and local shores and of course debate in
pub beer gardens (minus the St George flags) up and down the
country. It just doesn’t end and even though I might be all-sported-
out I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Oh and as for predictions in the Euros: I’m really not bothered… as
long as it isn’t that diving, cheating, crying, whinging Ronaldo!

First Five Euro 2008 things

Gordon Strachan's Leather
Bastian Schweinsteiger - could a name be any more GERMAN
Really old mad-looking managers
Danny Baker back on Radio 5 Live's 606
Andy Townsend - getting fatter with every Apple Strudel