Crivvens! A new TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI - and it hasn’t even been a full month yet! Anyone would think that I was sitting at home on a Friday night with nothing to do and no prospect of entertainment apart from watching fifth-time-repeated back-to-back episodes of “Mock the Week” on Dave (or the snooker*.)

Ahhh, but summer is looming, my sap is rising, and I’m once again breaking out my Kula Shaker collection for sun-kissed top-down bucolic in-car listening. Please be stifling that giggle; Kula Shaker were a seriously good band. Part of the second (or maybe third) wave of Britpop in the mid ’90s, they were breathtakingly exciting live, with an extremely tight and talented band playing classic rock riffs under the trademark roar of lead vocalist Crispian Mills - imagine a cross between Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, with a soupcon of “All Things Must Pass”-era George Harrison thrown in. Ultimately, though, they were stymied by a) the “Indian mysticism” theme running through their music and lyrics, which became something of an albatross around their collective necks, and relegated them in the minds of many to “Darkness” novelty stakes, b) a lot of inverse snobbery surrounding Mills (son of actress Hayley and from an undoubtedly very privileged background) and c) a fairly vicious right-on press campaign following some ill-judged comments from Mills about swastikas. Although that sort of thing never worried Bowie.

This offering, “Govinda”, is one of many outstanding tracks from their debut oeuvre “K”. The album sold by the bucket-load, so you can undoubtedly pick up a copy on Amazon for 1p - and it’s a worthwhile investment, despite having possibly the worst cover art since Whitesnake’s “Love Hunter”. Note a) the rock-tabulous beginning and ending, and b) the fact that, rather cleverly, the song SUGGESTS the major third in the 1-3-5 triad of the main chord, but (apart from in the vocal part) only uses it very sparingly, and indeed repeatedly teases us with the MINOR third. (Riveting, eh?)

(* - Don’t worry, things haven’t got THAT bad yet…)

- An arrogant disdain for the international community’s cessation of whaling.
- Bjork’s bravely avant-garde, but ultimately slightly disappointing, recent oeuvre.
- Wars fought over the right to exterminate the genus Gadus Morhua.
- The refusal of patently culpable financial institutions to refund Kent County Council (I’m not so bothered about the many other councils affected by this).
- Using lardy ex-girl-band-members to hawk bargain bucket frozen chilli dip turkey twizzlers to chavs using the frankly ludicrous pretext of maternal heroism.

Yes, there have always been plenty of reasons to dislike Iceland, but perhaps none more all-pervasive than the recent explosion of Eyjcouldntpossiblypronouncethat-butIknowthatattheenditlooksabitlikeskull. I, like many others, was affected by the second-most-irritating ash of all time*, stuck as I have been for most of the last week in strange foreign surroundings (erm, well, at my parents’ house in Italy), and facing the prospect of massive inconvenience and expense (I’d have had to switch the computer on to rebook my flight, AND I’d probably have felt morally obliged to buy my folks a bottle of wine to say thankyou for putting me up for another few nights. And did Gordon Brown, the foreign office or the navy offer ME any help with all this? Did they bollocks.)

Actually, I’m quite proud of my stiff upper lip and Dunkirk spirit - I may not have rowed across the Channel in a thinly-veiled attempt to boost my ailing father’s low-to-zero chances of once more manning the Swingometer at the upcoming election, but I DID check the internet every day for updates AND I didn’t throw too much of a strop when it was looking like I wouldn’t make it back in time for yesterday’s episode of “Waterloo Road”. And luckily, my strategy of coping with the disruption by gorging myself on pizza and red wine worked a treat - just as I was about to give up on the flight and resign myself to the horrors of the TGV, the independent-and-in-no-way-influenced-by-commercial-pressure safety authorities decided that volcanic ash wasn’t actually dangerous after all. In no time at all, the airspace had opened herself up to me utterly like the cheap, accomodating transportational whore she is, and, just as I had foreseen when booking back in February that the very last flight out before the  ban would be at 6am last Thursday, my return reservation was also for the very first one back (8am yesterday). Huzzah!

(* - After Leslie, obviously. Also in the running - the black guy from “Casualty” in the ’90s. He was a bit up himself. Well, the character was at least;  I’m sure the actor’s probably a very nice man. Actually, I’ve just wikipediad him - he’s Ian Wright’s cousin, so may well have been exposed to the same genetic mutation which causes Ian to suffer from such severe gobshittism.)

It’s been a while since the last serious social faux-pas, but like the proverbial London buses, three (at least) came along and ran me over all at once last Friday.

I was playing a doubles match in the annual tournaments at my local squash club for the first time, having entered myself on the back of a run of good results. I’d previously (wisely) confined myself to playing squash with close friends, who were familiar with the fact that my charmingly folksy Mediterranean shouty gesticulatorama dummy-spitting implement-breaking on-court demeanour was emblematic of my unique emotionally-demonstrative patchwork personality, rather than, say, of me being a dickhead.

The evening started badly; I turned up 10 minutes late; not entirely my fault, as I’d been held up at a 3-hour monthly meeting of the Maintenance Administration Committee of the block of flats where I own a rental property. (Imagine how boring that meeting sounds, then magnify it by a factor equivalent to the disparity between N-Dubz’ fame and their talent, and you’ll get close to how dull it actually was. Just when I thought the meeting had finished - on 2 hrs 20 mins, which would in itself have been the longest meeting ever - an old fella piped up with a dispute about an old insurance claim, which had occurred before I even bought my flat. The upshot was that the managing agent promised to look into it, but would need to dig out the relevant paperwork, and I SWEAR that the last TWENTY minutes of the discussion - all of which took place whilst I was desperate for a piss as well as to depart - consisted entirely of “Well, you know, I’m really not happy - I want this sorted as soon as possible”. “OK, we’ll dig out the paperwork and look into it”. “Well, as long as you do, because I really don’t think this is being handled correctly”. “No, I understand - we’ll get the file out and report back next month”. “Right, as long as you make sure this is investigated properly, because I’m very…” etc etc etc etc. Etc.)

(Yawn…) oh, sorry, where was I? Oh yes, 10 minutes late for squash. In the normal run of things, you’d think that this wasn’t a blue-whale-sized deal; yet I turned up to a sea of faces stonier than Cheech and Chong put together; for it seems that a) doubles matches tend to go on for longer than the normal 40-minute allotted period, and b) the whole evening was booked up with doubles matches - mine, and then 7 others. Thus my late arrival had inconvenienced everyone playing after us - 28 separate individuals, their extended families and probably entire circles of close friends, extending outwards to 3 or 4 degrees of separation… in fact, I’m half-expecting to see “Inconsiderate Squash Bastard Ruins Friday” as the headline in this week’s installment of your super soaraway Kentish Express.

On to the game itself; I was playing with a guy of around 40 against an older man and a woman of 35 or so with a heavily bandaged knee. Having never before played doubles, I was instructed to call a let (whereby the point is replayed) if I was in any danger at all of banging into anyone - however, keen no doubt to make up as much time as possible to atone for my late arrival, I ignored this advice and proceeded to run into / knock to the ground said partially injured woman FIVE times during the course of play. She didn’t seem to mind. Much. The first couple of times, at least. My physically intimidating approach paid off as we raced into a 2-1 lead - then, however, on surrendering a 6-point advantage in game 4 and losing the game with a poor shot, I launched into my trademark battle-cry of “OH, for FUCK’S sake!” - only to look up at the viewing gallery and see the young families of both my partner and knee-woman staring at me, kids borderline quizzical / frightened, adults ashen-faced; cue appropriate self-abasement. The deciding game was a close one; we held the lead and match point at 14-13, and my serve (directed deliberately straight at knee-woman’s patella, obviously) had the opposition in trouble - my partner was set up for an easy put-away… which he proceeded to dunk into the “foul” area at the bottom of the wall. We (or rather I) then lost the next two points as well, and that was that. Well, nearly. The last point over, the now-dead ball rolled to my feet, and in a fit of pique, I took a frustrated swing, miscued completely - and looked up to see the ball whizzing at 90mph straight into the bowlarks of my startled partner. Cue tuts from the gallery and a sotto-voce chorus of “that’s really not on” / “what a bad loser” etc. A massively suppliant round of “sorry”s to anyone who would make eye contact with me didn’t seem to do the trick, as I was roundly ignored in the bar when drinks were being taken afterwards. And as I write this, there’s a mysterious and unexpected “call me back” message from the club’s membership secretary on my phone…

Still, it’s the taking part that counts.

I’m currently listing a Greek copy of the Bee Gees’ 1975 LP “Main Course” on eBay, and for track 2 “Jive Talkin’” I mistakenly typed “Jove Talkin’”. Which would be quite amusing* in a Greek deity kinda way, were it not for the fact that “Jove” is the Roman name for the main Greek god.

(* - and the fact that it’s not really actually very amusing.)

Q - What Old Testament book does Reggie Kray quote from, Samuel L Jackson-in-Pulp-Fiction-style, when collecting debts?

A - Deuteronomy

(”Due to Ron ‘n’ Me”? No? Aw, go on…. definitely not? Well bollocks to you then.)

Suggs and his bandmates are off on tour again this year - but this time around, their lyrics have been revised considerably. Songs will include “Our Current Place of Dwelling” rather than “Our House” (so as not to discriminate against flat dwellers or the homeless), “One General Movement in a Forward Direction” rather than “One Step Beyond” (so as not to cause offence to those with missing limbs or other mobility challenges), and “My Gender-Non-Specific Life-Partner” rather than “My Girl” (so as not to etc etc etc).

It’s Madness gone Politically Correct.

Another TTOTDOWOHOHCBATCI update (I’d say “belated”, but they look to be averaging out at around one a month, so this is pretty much on cue), and it’s a second appearance for latterday progsters Marillion. The song in question is “Waiting to Happen”, from their second “different lead singer, not the enormous Scottish bloke you probably remember, but another fella who has a great voice but sounds as if he may have a case of mild sinusitis, you know, a bit like Rory McGrath” album, entitled “Holidays in Eden”. It’s a very sweet acoustic-driven number about the love finally found by someone who had given up on the idea.

It’s nice enough, but if I’m honest, slightly mushy for my palate. I can take it or leave it - that is right up ’til the last 50 seconds or so, when guitarist Steve Rothery cuts loose, turns on the rock afterburners and launches into an unexpected-chord-change-tastic full-on cojones-out up-to-eleven axes-aloft wig-out (with a delicious fade-out coda on the piano), which I haven’t been able to get out of my head for the last two days, and which brings the song up disproportionately in my estimation. And yours as well, if you have any taste.

Actually, if I rationalise it, the fact that I’m enormously ambivalent about the bulk of the song with its warm, emotional-but-mature “never give up on the hope of love” lyrical theme, yet still (19 years after first hearing the song) get ludicrously excited about the soaring arpeggiatorial majesty of the guitar solo at the end might just offer a clue as to how my own “vie d’amour” is destined to progress…

Praise be! For our saviour carrieth our hopes and dreams and promiseth everlasting joy and heaven through his mighty works. Yea, verily I say unto thee, he receiveth gladly his cross and always achieveth the goals of his faithful.  Yet woebetide us all - for this very week, he hath been cast down by his enemies on a green field far away - injured, despised and tormented, he beareth the stigmata of his pains through hand and foot…

Luckily, it now appears that Wayne Rooney’s ankle injury isn’t as bad as was first feared.