In the Cast

I am pretty busy at the minute. I don't live a stressful life by any means but there are certain things that my current situation requires me to do. Prepare to move out, earn some money, watch as a many Bo Burnham videos on Youtube as is humanly possible during one earth day.

Another mammoth demand on my time are podcasts. Such is my addiction to the brilliant (and free) audio downloads I often find myself listening to my Ipod in bed thinking that I can't go sleep as I have such a backlog of quality to catch up on. My profound love of the Hamish and Andy podcast has been documented on this blog before and probably forms the bulk of my listening duties. They churn forty five minutes of gold everyday from down under giving me a considerable workload from the kick off.

Then factor in Mark Kermode's weekly film reviews (it's practically obligatory to listen if you ever fancy seeing a film again) and you are up to a running total of 3 hours a week. But the madness doesn't stop there (I'm beginning to scare myself totaling all this up). I have recently become addicted to the Times Online podcast "The Bugle" which is a self proclaimed "audio newspaper for a visual world" and is hosted by two of Britain's finest comedy talents Andy Salzman and John Oliver. The latter is currently making it big in America as a prominent writer and correspondent on the excellent "Daily Show with John Stewart", which garnered an Emmy last week for it's the continued high standard of it's writing. Another 50 minutes is thrown on to the bonfire of lost time in the shape of Adam and Joe's six music show. The 3 hour Saturday morning broadcast is honed down to a consistently funny highlight's package which captures the DIY ethos perpetuated by the pair. Search "Song Wars Quantum of Solace" on youtube to see the best of their home made offerings.

I haven't even begun to examine the "sports" facet of my podcasting addiction. Sport is the topic that perhaps most lends itself to podcasting as all you need is a couple of mics and some passion to debate in much the same way people do down the pub after watching a game.The Football Ramble is a podcast that does just that and is a podcast to which, after being directed to it a month a go, I have frequently been compelled to listen to before other more stalwart members of my ipod lineup. The four guys that do it managed to top the Itunes sports charts without any backing from sponsors and continue to create intelligent, hilarious editions week in week out. The Guardian's football weekly podcast manages to often crow bar two podcasts a week in with their somewhat superior resources. Just as enjoyable as the Ramble in a different way James Richardson and Co. are the place to go especially for informed analysis of the game on the continent and in South America, something that is hard to come by elsewhere.

The Jake and Tiarnan Podcast - Episode 12

This is the last goodbye. I hate to feel the Podcast between us die. These words of Jeff Buckley are all I have left to describe the Jake and Tiarnan Podcast, Episode 12 of which is the last one for the forseeable future. In it we compare ourselves to Mother Theresa and express our hate for Jeremy Paxman. It's not great but then has it ever been? Get it now here.

Class is Permanent

I have never liked Manchester United. Perhaps it was their perpetual success or the gum chewing smugness of Alex Ferguson that initially ignited my loathing. Either way it is fair to say that my distaste for all things red is tempered with a grudging respect.

It's a respect I'm sure that Manchester City's fans will find difficult to unearth given their unfortunate loss on Sunday afternoon in the Old Trafford leg of the derby. Admittedly Glazer Bros Incorporated were helped by the poor timekeeping abilities of the referee but, in the larger scheme of things, there was something at least partially worthy in their victory.

Although United are by no means the poor man of Manchester it has been a tough summer for the usually dominant force of the Northwest. As they watched their rivals buy up the cream of (wantaway) talent in British football they were left to contend with a hole in their team in the shape of a preening, but otherwise supremely talented, Portuguese tit by the name of Cristiano Ronaldo. In this sense their victory on Saturday is validation that they are still the big wolves on the Manchester campus, a sign that by sheer force of will (and the names that they managed to hold on too) they will reassert the dominance they have built throughout the decades over their now more monied rivals.

Sir Alex Ferguson jokingly declared in his pre- match press conference that Manchester City would never be better than his own team while he was alive. Although they are getting closer maybe he's right; are City fated to be forever in the shadows of their local rivals? Whilst they spend millions on a central defensive partnership that seems adverse to heading footballs Ferguson shrewdly invests in Michael Owen and nurtures Darren Fletcher into one of the finest midfielders in the world, quietly restoring the the natural order of things in the North West. How apt was it that Owen should score a late, poached winner? It was perhaps not what his team deserved but it underlined Ferguson's managerial acumen and showed that the tide has not quite turned for Mark Hughes and Manchester City. He has built an impressive team, one which has managed to gel and which gave an sterling (albeit defensively shaky) account of itself on Sunday but as yet for all the sense that they were beleaguered and weakened coming into this season it is United rather than City that are still on top in Manchester.

Traffic

It seems that there has been some unexpected traffic to this here blog over recent days. September 14th especially was off charts, I'm not entirely sure how the google servers coped. Unless it is just the same person visiting numerous times a day (which is likely) then it appears some people need to make themselves known with a comment or two. The Leader is watching.

Reading 2009

I wish there was a better way than words to try and recall everything that some fields just outside a town in Berkshire mean but as yet this is the best I can do. My memories are blurred by the sun, a lack of sleep and the blistering pace of life in a festival bubble, but hopefully one day these comparatively fresh ramblings will act as a aid memoir for a weekend that I wouldn't mind remembering.

Day 1

After two days of mainly sitting around getting sunburnt it was strange actually going to see some bands on the Friday of the Reading weekend. Until that point it feels as though you are part of a mental camping trip devised to see at which point tens of thousands of young people will forget that they are all normal, law abiding humans and start burning things and running amok, Lord of the Flies style. Jack Penate was the first person I actually managed to see in a packed NME tent and it proved a good choice. Unlike many other acts Penate played a set that was the perfect mix of old and new with a maturity and charisma that his first album suggested he never would be able to muster. He was followed by Florence and the Machine used the lack of competition on other stages, word of mouth positivity and an insane outfit to attract a massive crowd . The energy that her somewhat pretentious pop created is perhaps a testament to her incredible voice and her sincerity and passion even swept me up in a moment that I expected to be as bland as her recorded music. Despite climbing a lighting rig and generally running around like a nutter even she was made to look static by the sheer bombast of Friendly Fires, who grew up in St Albans but sound like they were born in Sau Paulo. They have received deserved plaudits this year for their innovative album, the urgency and fun from which translates into a engrossing live sound. Couple that with the fact that their lead singer has got some dance moves that make Freddy Mercury look serious and restrained and you have a live act of some heft.

After a trip back to the campsite and an opportunity to drink something other than expensive arena cider it was time for Jamie T. Despite the speed and accuracy of his vocal delivery the Wimbledon bass-meister general managed to run over his allotted time slot, meaning that new single Sticks and Stones was absent from an otherwise crowd pleasing set. Calm Down Dearest and If You got the Money caused mass sing alongs and new material, including the quality Chaka Demus, give grounds for promise and the hope that Mr T may be around for a while to come.

Watching Jamie T meant sacrificing a spot near the main stage for headliners Kings of Leon. This led to some creative crowd pushing tactics being employed which weren't entirely convincing but got the job done (why would the friends of an unconscious boy be taking his slumped form on their backs towards the front?). We ended up five rows from barriers for what was possibly the strangest gig experience I have ever had. Despite one hundred thousand people turning up to see them the newly crowned biggest band in the world were annoyed. It seems that a lukewarm reaction to some earlier songs (which were greeted with enthusiasm where we were standing) and a poor sound quality caused by the wind were enough to induce a mid set speech from lead singer Caleb, the gist of which was: "Fuck You". Maybe the slow realisation that with mass popularity comes a more part time fan base, content to sing along to Sex on fire for instance but not too the seven minute opus of Knocked Up, is grating on the notoriously cool, publicity shy foursome. Maybe they were just pissed. Either way their sulky performance put a sour tinge on an otherwise faultless musical display.

Day 2

After long discussion as to the cause of KOL's anger , Fosters and very little sleep it was time to embark on day 2 widely held to be the weakest line up of the three. As the day wore on the time which we planned to go the arena was pushed back and back as none of the acts managed to tempt us out of out rapidly disintegrating camping chairs and toward the stages. In the end we made it through a packed arena intake area to see The White Lies. They have had a pretty good year by anyones standards and a number one album for a dark, post punk-esque guitar band is a result I'm sure they didn't expect. I personally loved the album but wasn't convinced that it would translate live. It did. The draw of the Prodigy on the main stage somewhat emptied the NME tent but it did little to lessen the atmosphere of a brilliant performance. Everyone raved about the Prodigy the next morning, and I'm sure they were good, but I was more than happy with my little space in a tent that looked like a circus to watch a band dressed almost entirely in black sing songs about haunted fairgrounds and dieing on aeroplanes. You don't need pills to improve that experience.

The choice of NME tent rather than main stage late in the day again meant there was a half-drunk sprint over empty noodle containers and tired festival goers to catch the Arctic Monkeys. I have always loved the Arctic Monkeys for their sense of fun, lyrical panache and the fact the what ever the occasion they rarely looked arsed. However when it gets to headlining the main stage at Reading perhaps you need a bit of urgency. You also need a bit of acumen to plan your set, something which was woefully absent from a lack lustre set. Anytime an old classic threatened to whip up any kind of atmosphere the crowd were returned to earth by a slower track or a new song (their album was only five days old that Saturday). Despite all this songs like I bet you look Good on the Dance floor still resonate live like no other songs I've heard and remind everyone why they've come along. It's not to say Humbug isn't up to scratch it's just that the songs were to fresh to inspire any real fervour.

Day 3

After the somewhat sparse line up of day 2 Sunday seemed to promise a lot more. Lethal Bizzle's particular brand of balls out lyrical wizardry kicked off my day at the NME tent. "Bizzle" received a rapturous reception from the middle class indie kids of southern England in return for a flawless set the only fault of which was his imploring of the distinctly suburban crowd to shout "FUCK THE POLICE!". It left a cliched, sour taste in the mouth - I very much doubt that people get routinely checked on the basis of their race in St Albans.

Frank Turner followed the big B and proved that he is a live performer of some repute. After inducing the crowd to form a hardcore gig esque "circle pit" in which everyone jigged rather than caved skulls in Turner played a set of razor sharp tunes, belted out with real tenacity. Final song "The Ballad of Me and my friends" was a singularly brilliant experience - being in a crowd of young people repeating the final verse refrain of "and we are defiantly going to hell!" is something not easily forgotten.

My solitary adventure outside the world of the "Big Two" stages came after Frank Turner as I made a visit to the Festival Republic stage to see the purveyors of perfect disco pop the Magistrates. They had attracted a respectable crowd for a Sunday afternoon slot and they delivered a solid, energetic performance dominated by their lead singers pitch perfect, piercing falsetto. I am convinced bigger things await.

A band that can already claim to have "made it" are the Gaslight Anthem. They sound like Bruce Springsteen's and Brandon Flower's love child conceived during a desert storm. They are, in short, amazing. They absolutely chewed up the NME tent during a late Sunday afternoon slot with a sound that could easily grace the main stage. Their confidence was palpable, their songwriting and melodic power inspired - they are the next (but better) Kings of Leon and they will headline a main stage somewhere within five years. Or I will eat my face.

A band that must be desperate to do just that (headline a main stage not eat my face) are Bloc Party. Serial Reading support act though they are they tore the main stage field apart before the more introspective Radiohead Sunday night set, proving without doubt that they have the songs and the capabilities to dominate the top of a bill. New single One more chance induced hysteria, Flux pandemonium and Helicopter scenes akin to that of the Somme. Are you watching Kings of Leon?

Before this display of raw power the more mellow sounds of Vampire Weekend rang out across Berkshire. Third on the bill after just one album is some achievement and as they played the majority of their first record you realised just how many weapons grade tunes it contains. Frontman Ezra Koenig dominated the main stage from behind darkened wayfarers as A Punk and Walcott send people at the front so mental they begin to hoist their friends on to inflatable sofas (fuck knows how they got them in).

After all the youthful abandon of their two predecessors I expected Radiohead to bring the mood down somewhat. They didn't. After arriving on the main stage with an uncharacteristic cry of "Whazzzzaaaaaa?" Thom Yorke and friends play some old favorites seen less often that Bengal tigers. Even 14 year old Bloc Party fans sang along to Creep and (maybe down to Mark Ronson) literally everyone sang along to Just. A mammoth set of these classics and the cream of their recent album In Rainbows made for a legendary headline set. The young pretenders to their throne as best British band still have a long way to go before they can say they are as good as Radiohead.

These are my bare memories of Reading musically. It is a lot harder to describe the actual festival itself. The chronic insanity of the whole experience is harder to pin down. Who thought it was a good idea to put 100,000 people in a field with ready access to alcohol and little access to appropriate sanitation? Whoever they were they are incredible because it shouldn't ever work - but it does.