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This rambles an awful lot. It’s an album that has ambition, as well as staying power. Unfortunately I wasn’t around for the full journey. It was all very competent and technically strong. It was just far too heavy for me. Bailed after track 3.

⭐ ⭐

The team news drops. Morato. Oh dear. And so here we are, playing our first major European semi-final in 42 years - which still sounds utterly BONKERS to say - with the third choice centre half propping up the defence. Erm, is Chetts still match fit? He’d be guaranteed an unlikely European goal, right?

Elsewhere and Matty Cash returned to the World Famous, wearing the claret and blue of Villa. I wonder how he must have felt, having spent eight years at the club in the Championship years, and then returns to play on the European stage?

And what of Omari Hutchinson? Remember he was binned out of the original Europa League squad in a final act of bitterness by Nuno as part of his tit for tat with Edu. And yet here was Hutchinson, starting for Forest in a European semi-final. His selection was well-deserved, as well.

There was a fantastic atmosphere ahead of KO. Forza had done the old ground proud once more. You can watch in awe at how some of the major European power houses handle a European night with all the pre-match razzmatazz. But the World Famous City Ground doesn’t lend itself to flashing lights and stadium stretching tifos. It’s all about the fans, innit.

The game itself was something of a tense watch for me. I admit that BOOZE got the better of me, plus also a very poorly timed personal phone call that I had to take midway through the first half. Whoops.

MGW was nullified by Villa playing in his hybrid No.10 out wide role. Anderson was immense, as ever. Morato managed not to fuck it up. My main hope was for Forest to remain in the tie ahead of the second leg. Please don’t collapse with a humiliating scoreline against what is a very, very decent Villa team.

I needn’t have worried. The plan from Vitor appeared to be sit tight, hold your nerve, and take your chances if and when they come. Chris Wood certainly did that. There was only one way that pen was going to be taken it. Just bloody TWAT it. Blimey. We’re only 1-0 up in a European semi-final.

Cometh the hour, cometh the Academy boys. I was actually quite emotional when Ryan Yates, and then Zach Abbott both took to the field to shore things up. Neither player let the club down.

And so we take a 1-0 lead away to Villa Park for the return leg next week. I hope anybody’s not stupid enough to write us off, etc.

I love mixtapes. They remind me of the remix albums from back in the day. There’s no pressure or expectation to come up with something outstanding. They stand alone as a snapshot in time - then you move on to the next project. There’s such a light touch going off here with Noname. Characters drift in and out. The light funk behind the vocals adds a breeze. Very decent.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Drivers could save £4,000 during fuel crisis by swapping to a cargo bike, new research suggests

via road.cc

sourcefeed - a standalone RSS writing tool.

“In the decade of Thatcher from 1980 to 1990, London still built nearly 52,000 council homes. In the decade of Tony Blair from 1997 to 2007, only 280 went up.”

via The Graun

“If Anne Pigalle provided the final, torch‑lit monologue of ZTT’s first great era, then Act were the epilogue — the last fully staged production before the label stepped into a different decade and a different identity.”

The ZTT Collectors Page on Facebook is throwing up some great insight, as well as some musical gems. I wouldn’t claim that I’m a ZTT collector; G Force knitwear and Forest retro kits are bothering my bank account more than rare mid 80’s 12 inches. But Act were a new one on me.

There’s a three hour plus compilation on Spotify. I thought I would give a few tracks a listen on Thursday morning. A couple of hours later and I still hadn’t come up for air.

At a push, Propaganda were my fave ZTT artist. Frankie were the BALLS, Art of Noise in the original guise were the oddities. The brief Grace Jones flirtation is pop perfection.

Overlaying all ZTT artists for this period was the hybrid aesthetics of Trevor Horn’s crisp, industrial production, and Paul Morley’s, ahem, artistic vision.

The Act compilation has all of the above. It could quite easily be Propaganda with a little more pop polish. There’s even a BONKERS cover of Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.

I’m struggling to think of a contemporary label, or even a musical movement, that carries the same ethos and defining principles of early ZTT. Motown had it in spades. Ditto for Factory. ZTT was perhaps the last manifesto label.

I’d love to read a definitive history of the label. I’m surprised that nothing has yet been written. Maybe the magic behind the curtain is best left undisturbed? Careful what you wish for, etc.

With a spare hour or so out on the Eastern fringes of the Olympic Park to spare, I had a second shifty through the Bowie Archives at the V&A Storehouse. I was a little underwhelmed when the Archives first opened last year. I was in search of Bowie, but instead found a very sterile, soulless experience - something that could rarely be said about Bowie himself.

With the hype for the Storehouse having died down, pre-booking tickets are no longer required. Tuesday lunchtime was pretty quiet at the Storehouse. It led to a more relaxed atmosphere, and not the desire or need to read EVERY Bowie artefact on show, clambering to make sure that I hadn’t missed something.

It remains a revolving display of items on show. The bulk of the Archive is still behind closed doors, waiting to come out once the current run of themes and rarities have run their course. There’s no linear or chronological curation. The Archive is all the better for this.

I really enjoyed my return visit, floating between the various cabinets, and taking a pick ‘n’ mix approach to the detail I wanted to zoom in on. One of my favourite items remains the letter penned by Bowie’s old man back in the mid 60’s, giving him a character reference and asking a music mogul to give him a break.

The costumes on show remain the obvious big hitters. I was struck once again at the petite waistline throughout his career - all the way from Ziggy through to the Earthling late 90’s Union Flag branded jacket. I took a few moments to lose myself in the big screen action. Fashion hit the spot for me on Tuesday.

To the Copper Box! …on Tuesday morning for Day 1 of the World Table Tennis Championships. To say that I have been CREAMING myself over this over the past few months is something of an understatement. It may only be the qualifiers for the World Champs, but WOH. These guys play a slightly different variation of the game that we arse around with at the Table of Dreams.

First things first: time to smuggle some food into the Copper Box. The usual crappy Ticketmaster FAQ’s had strict instructions about no food, no drink, bag search bollocks, etc. Arse. It will come as no surprise to read that I’m not the type of fella that is going to pay £15 for a crappy dirty burger within the Arena.

I was loaded up with THREE bars of Lidl’s finest milk chocolate - one of which was a freebie via the app - all tucked away and concealed in places where you really shouldn’t be hiding away chocolate. I hope they don’t melt. The Milky Bars are on me, etc.. I needn’t have worried. The bag search was minimal; there was no body patting down.

We took up our seats in the Copper Box. Seating was unreserved. Shortly after 11am we had the choice of seats for pretty much anywhere in the arena. The event was a little, ahem, undersold. The real action for the World Champs starts over at Wembley Arena in a week’s time. But that’s a right arse on the other side of town for us to get to.

In front of us was twelve courts stretching out around the Copper Box. The first decision was to choose which game to focus on. It soon became clear that multi-screen viewing habits had trained my eyes well. I could follow two - possibly three - games simultaneously. As long as the players weren’t serving at the same time, then my brain wasn’t overloaded.

This was a completely different style of play to what I am use to. Even the warm ups were a little manic. The players were so young as well. It’s frightening to think that they must spend around half their day twatting a wiff waff ball back and forth to achieve their levels of skills. I get a little bored after twenty minutes.

There was some weird observations going off. Some of the players were using hexagonal bats. Blimey. A bit of online snooping later in the day explained how this is now a thing within the sport. There was also the very odd - and almost universal - tactic of the players placing their palm on the table by the net ahead of every shot. I think I’m at home with OCD wiff waff.

We were booked in for the full day of play. This involved two separate sessions. The evening session was scheduled to end at 11pm. I was pretty much done by 7pm, and made my excuses. It was a decent day out, and great to see the skill and variations in play that I don’t normally get to witness.

I’ve listened to this on AirPods. I’ve listened to this on a pair of bass boosting, noise canceling big beasts; I’ve even gone old school and played this on CD through my amp, with bass boosted. Yet it still sounds SO tinny. That’s the appeal, right? You’re always half a track away from a possible film soundtrack. It all adds to the sense of suspense, even if the bass has got lost down the back of the settee.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Not more punk ska. I wanted to really dislike this. But the uplifting horns on the opener We Will Fall Together got me in my groove. There’s almost a South American feel to the sound, fused with elements of Irish bawdy barroom songs. Mixing pop and politics always helps. Quite a statement of an album. It probably sounds even better at 10pm, rather than my 10am airing.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

To the Table of Dreams! …on Sunday morning. We made our way down the side of the park, and past the grand old King George Oak - the one that the local Town Council has a pathological desire to fell. It looked radiant in early spring. It should survive far longer than the questionable mandate of those hell bent on bringing it down. So there.

There was plenty of wind to rattle the old branches and fresh leaves on the tree. Which all meant that we opted for the heavier wind ball. I was finding it hard to find my length on the table, having played indoors mainly throughout the past month.

A couple rocked up next to us to play a game of boules. This is the first time that we have seen the court being used. Respect.

The game itself was the usual one way traffic. Some of the local birds were busy up above, nattering away and making a right old bloody racket. That’s the reason I’m giving for a 4-1 defeat.