For those of you who missed it first time round…

…this outstanding album (Crazy Rhythms) immediately finds its way onto my albums of the year list on account of it being re-released this month by Domino Records.


My vinyl copy from 1980 is amost unplayable now.  But it really rocks.  Indeed it apparently ranked #49 in Rolling Stone‘s top 100 albums of the 1980s, and #69 on Pitchfork Media‘s similar list.

Although every track is a classic and self-penned by the band the one that totally freaked me was “Everybody’s got something to hide except me and my Monkey” – a Lennon/McCartney cover fro (I think) The White Album.  It’s played at a hundred  miles an hour on jangly guitars that apparently were fed straight into the sound-desk for their distinctive sound.  It’s a classic and you can hear it on Spotify.

Trust me.  You’ll love it.  And I count myself among the visionaries who bought and cherished it! (I don’t know ANYONE else that has it).

The Golden Twits

Hats off to the The Drum for thinking up one of the inanest awards schemes ever.  The Golden Twits; a scheme that awards Twitterers for great “Twiting”.  My opinion of Twitter is no secret.  I think it reeks of piss and ham, but I do persevere.

Anyway, I thought I’d enter in a subversive way and this is my entry…

Golden Twits_1256202781531

I hope they take in the spirit it was meant.

Beth Tweddle. Back of the net. Back of the bloody net.

Could you do that?  No.  Could David Beckham?  no.  Could Beth Tweddle earn a percentage point of his income?  No.

Could you do that? No. Could David Beckham? No. Could Beth Tweddle earn a percentage point of his income? No. Is life just?

I totally agreed with Robert Kitson’s column in The Guardian today that lamented the relative prominence of news stories on Monday; reflecting on the weekend’s sporting achievements.

Like many, I was enthralled by Jenson Button’s critic-bashing performance.  Sublime, determined and gutsy.

Well done mate.  You showed the sneering hacks.


It wasn’t a bloody patch on Beth Tweddle’s.

My youngest daughter knocked her pan in for a number of years as a member of our nearest gymnastics club (10 miles away as it happens).  She grew muscles that put me to shame.  She was fit as a butcher’s dog.  She had extraordinary strength AND flexibility and yet she was at the bottom of the gymnastics ladder.

Gymnastics is for superheroes and you better believe it.

And Britain (as Kitson rightly points out) is football’s equivalent of the Isle of Man (reserves) on the world gymnastics stage.

So, the fact that Tweddle crashed and burned in her top apparatus (the asymetric bars) where she had previously gained our ONLY EVER world gold, yet picked herself up to qualify for the floor final was a feat of incredulity in itself.

But that wasn’t the end.

She won it.

Yes.  She won it.

Unlike Andy Murray.

Unlike any British golfer in the sport we taught the world, in a major, in ten years.

Unlike England’s football team since 1966.

Unlike all of our highest paid sports, ahem, personalities in most of their disciplines.

But Beth did.

We voted for Beth to win Sports Personality of the Year the last time she won gold.  Fat chance.

This time, she didn’t even hit the bloody headlines. That achievement should have been front page news.  Not in the sports sections – in the main papers.

It’s a bloody crying shame.

Beth Tweddle.  We, the Gormans, salute you…