This week, it’s a shrinkage of format from 12 inches down to 7. And rather than dwelling on the highlights, I’ve included some lowlights, too.

First up, it’s:

Red Organ Serpent Sound - In Search of Orgasmuz (Vertigo)

I’m usually one to grouch about all things retro but while this one wears it’s ’60s garage influence on its sleeve, it pulls it off very well (****). The flip side is a live cut called Cruisin’ - like many live recordings it’s not ideally suited to a record but it certainly does enough to suggest that they’re a band worth seeing (***).

The Warlocks - It’s Just Like Surgery (City Rockers)

It’s Just Like … the Marychain, to be honest. Had the Reid brothers not been born, it’d be a decent record; as it is, it just makes you want to listen to the real thing (**). The b-side, Heart Thief, wins the day comfortably as a decent stab at ’60s style psychedelia (***1/2).

Misty’s Big Adventure - The Story Of Love (SL)

Quite simply, a good song. The lyrics are good, the tune is good. The sound is fairly sparse but there’s a warmth to it. It’s good! (****) I Buried The Neighbours is one of those odd little numbers that you could only possibly put on a b-side - quirky but entertaining (***)

Mando Diao - Down In The Past (Majestic)

Didn’t Kingmaker used to sound like this? I can’t quite remember. It’s a decent enough track, though it gives way too much emphasis to some fairly non-descript drumming. It’s good to let the drummer take the lead if he happens to sound like Budgie or Bonzo but not if he sounds like her out of The White Stripes. (***) On the flip “India Love” suggests all sorts of musical limitations. The singer is quite good, though. (*)

Humanzi - Fix The Cracks (SFR)

I quite enjoyed this at 45 where it sounded like some mad Japanese thing. At 33, it’s got a nice guitar sound to it and its not too bad. But someone really needs to tell the singer that he’s not Shaun Ryder (***1/2). On the other side Get Your Shit Together grooves along nicely enough but does everything to reinforce the idea that these guys need to sell their old Mondays records (***).

The Paddingtons - Sorry (Poptones)

Sorry, indeed. (*) B-side Claire My Dear is a painful reminder of just how bad the singer is. (no stars)

Richard Hawley - Coles Corner (Mute)

Blimey! A proper song by a proper singer with some lush string arrangements by a chap called Colin Elliot. The sort of thing Sinatra might have sung and while this guy might not be able to sing as well as the great man himself, he’s clearly a very talented singer-songwriter. (****1/2) Backed by A Bird Never Flew On One Wing, a pleasant slide-guitar instrumental that suggests he has more than one string to his bow. (***1/2)

My Morning Jacket - Off The Record (ATO)

Hardly the best pressing I’ve ever come across and I rather suspect that Off The Record should sound a little brighter than my copy suggests. (***) How Could I Know sounds destined for third-rate accoustic miserablism but turns into something rather engaging (****)

Happy Mondays/Graeme Revell Playground Superstar/Santiago’s Theme (Big Brother)

It might not be up there with Kinky Afro but it’s certainly as good as anything they’ve done since Thrill’n'Pills. A lesson from the old masters to the likes of Humanzi. It’s good to have them back. (****1/2) The Graeme Revell track is slightly incongrous company for The Mondays (both are culled from the Goal! soundtrack). It starts off all classical and then gets funky on us, a nice track (****)

Drive By Argument - Sex Lines Are Expensive Comedy (One)

Good title, bad record. (*) The Afro Ninja Remix on the back is slightly more bearable (**)

Engerica - Roadkill (Sanctuary)

Punk rock of the tuneless and talentless variety (*) The flip, Detective Show, left me feeling highly embarrassed for them. Imagine David Brent reading you his poetry. Lamentable. (less than no stars)

Corinne Bailey Rae - Like A Star

Smokey, late-night jazz. Well sung and well arranged. Classy (****1/2). On the back, Enchantment is given a more modern arrangement which doesn’t really do it any favours. The vocal is excellent, though. (***1/2) Nicely pressed, too.

Morning Runner - Be All You Want Me To Be (Parlophone)

Histrionic, over-blown and self-consciously epic. It will probably go down a storm at Glasto but, to quote Morrissey, it says nothing to me about my life (**). Frayed Edges is a little more interesting (***1/2).

I wake up this morning and head up to Villa Park for a stupidly early kick-off and watch the mighty Villa lose (rather unluckily) to a fairly poor Liverpool side via a dodgy penalty decision. Nothing that hasn’t happened a million times before. My brother and sister suggest a game of ten-pin bowling so we walk down to Star City (a big Cinema, casino and entertainment complex that’s been brightening up North Birmingham’s post-industrial wastelands for the last few years).

I used to love Star City. Big time. A big melting pot for various Brummie cultures. This afternoon, as we approach, the place is double fenced and surrounded by a great many police officers. A group of teenage girls, Asian in origin, walk past us the other way and say “They ain’t letting us in, it’s alright for you, you white f***ers!”. I’m offended ‘cos I don’t like racism but I don’t say anything. The reason they haven’t been allowed in is probably a lot more to do with age prejudice than race prejudice. Hopefully, they’ll sus that one day.

We eventually find a way in and head towards the bowling alley. There’s security guards everywhere and there’s an airport style metal detector on the door of the bowling alley. This is starting to feel much more like a police-state than a party!

We go in for an hour or two and play some over-priced skittles. While we’re in the bowling alley, everything is pretty normal - lots of people of lots of different creeds and colours having a good time and generally getting on with each other. This is what Star City’s generally been like for me and it certainly can be a nice place to be. We finish playing and decide to head back to the local. We head outside to find that the taxi rank seems to have moved. I ask one of the security guys where they’ve moved it to and he tells me that there’s no taxis allowed in today. I ask him what exactly’s going on and he says something like “Ah, you know, Security. Eid and Bonfire Night and all that - we’re expecting things to get a little heavy”. By now, probably around six o’clock, there seem to be more coppers outside than there were policing the 43,000 people at the match - and we all know that football has a tendency to bring out the negativity in the British.

This is the first time I’ve been to Star City for a few months - I used to go with the girlfriend quite regularly to take in a movie and wolf down a Nando’s or two. At some point we realised that the Nando’s next to the Broad Street UGC is a better one (no idea why, but no two branches ever seem to be the same) and the cinema is slightly better, too. But I can’t imagine too much has changed since I was last there in terms of how it is on a typical day. It has, for pretty well all it’s existence had a reputation for gang trouble but I can honestly say it never seemed justified. I certainly can’t recall ever feeling intimated there and I’ve never known it to be plagued by hood-rats or other massed-ranks of excrement. Security has always been quite low profile there but obviously working to a fair extent.

A few hundred coppers in one place, though, pretty much guarantees a riot in my book. There’s undoubtedly a connection with recent fighting between the black and Asian communities in nearby Lozells and the subsequent desecration of Muslim graves (allegedly committed by a black terror-group but I’d happily bet a fortune that it was perpetrated by white-trash-supremacists Combat 18 or related parties). The same “people” who started the Burnley riots and are responsible for 99% of the nation’s footie violence. An organisation that was formed by people who amazingly didn’t think that the National Front was sufficiently right-wing. One devoted to racial assaults, the provocation of race riots and football violence. We’re talking about people who don’t bother denying the holocaust - they celebrate it. Just to give you some idea of their intellectual level: the “18″ part of the name represents the initials of their mono-testicular, Austrian wank-fantasy, that nice Mr. Hitler. What should be a nice Saturday family night-out for thousands of people looks like turning into a major riot, because of the plottings of a couple of sickoid skinheads. Surely, this is terrorism in full-effect.

The question does occur to me whilst trying to find an exit somewhere in the lavishly oppressive temporary fencing of why things should be this way now that we’ve declared War on Terror. What, exactly do you need to do to qualify as a target of The War? Bombs? They’ve done that - the London nail-bomber was a member (in every sense of the word). Hate campaigns? A speciality, it would seem. Fundamentalism? They’ve got that with lots of added “mental” for good measure. But groups such as this, along with more established European terror-groups from Belfast to Bilbao just don’t seem to be on the agenda. I see nothing at all wrong with going after Al Queda but would it not be a good idea to practice on a few groups based closer to home beforehand?

It’s started.

I’ve just been down the shops to get a loaf of bread, just like I did the other day. Only, this time, everywhere’s jam-packed full. As we near November, the hoards are emerging and suddenly the world is unbearably crowded until January.

This is just the warm-up phase of course - come dreaded December, any foray past the front door will be destined to wind-up being viewed as a mistake. By then, the population of this sceptic isle will have trebled again and getting hold of even the most basic of necessities will involve a five-hour queue in an over-heated sardine can. To make matters worse, there will be compulsory Christmas songs on a three-track tape loop (perm any 3 from 5) to entertain the masses as they stand in lines that would make the eyes of an old Stalinist dewy with nostalgia. The mere anticipation of it all makes me feel faint. Especially the Christmas songs.

It’s not just the shops, either. It’s the pubs. For eleven months of the year we get to go where everybody knows our name. In November, we’ll know all five occupants of the local. In December, we’ll be lucky to get through the door.

It’s the office groups that are the worst, of course. Barely a qualified drinker amongst them and constantly emitting forced cackles at excessive volume whilst standing in the most obstructive places possible (don’t get me wrong, I always feel sorry for the odd genuine drinker who’s been dragged along with them - it’s a painful enough experience). But it’s not all office parties, it’s all sorts of people springing out of the ether. One minute they’re nowhere to be seen; the next, as if by magic, you can’t move for them.

I’m given to believe that my country’s population is reasonably static - 60 million give or take (plus some four and a half billion illegal immigrants if one believes The Daily Express but, frankly, one doesn’t). It really does feel, though, for all the world, like there’s a major population surge every time the clocks are wound back to perpetual-darkness mode.

Now there’s no way that the government can get on the blower to foreign powers and ask them if they’ve got a few million Brits going spare for a couple of months. The logistics would be ridiculous and where would they store them for the rest of the year? Perhaps, then, there aren’t any extra people at all - November and December are actually the only time when everybody’s here! My theory is this: there’s some great big conspiracy going on whereby half of the population get to go on holiday for ten months of the year, leaving the rest of us to keep the country ticking-over in their absence whilst paying taxes to cover their flights home for Christmas. And do we get so much as a postcard? Do we heck.

I’m not generally given to watching television and I have a particular dislike for “reality” shows coupled with a suitably snobbish attitude towards ITV. That said, yesterday morning found me in such a hungover condition that the idiot box was the only option open. Much to my own amazement I found myself getting rather engrossed in The X-Factor, so much so that I even watched it again this morning (this time with a slightly more gentle hangover) and again found it rather absorbing.

The X-Factor, for those who haven’t seen it is a talent contest on a grand scale. Entrants swarm to audition sessions around the country and sing for a panel of three judges in the hope that they will be passed through to the next stage. The ultimate winner will be signed to one of the judges’ labels and will have generated enough publicity to pretty well guarantee a platinum selling debut. If fame is your aim, it’s certainly a glittering prize and one which many of the contestants are hanging all of their hopes and dreams on.

Where the show differs from the old style talent shows like Opportunity Knocks and New Faces is that there is no pre-selection of performers - you get to see the whole gamut of entrants from the talented to the tragic. And, if I’m going to be honest, much of the interest lies at the tragic end of the spectrum. The show provides some trainwreck television of the most intense kind as truly lamentable performers are reduced to tears and plead pathetically as they are informed that they really can’t sing. It’s really rather difficult to understand how many of them could ever delude themselves into thinking that they should even be allowed to sing in the shower let alone in public. We’re not talking about people who are a little off pitch or hitting the odd bum note here; we’re talking about people who quite simply cannot sing at all. It’s a common complaint, not many of us can sing but we accept it and get along with our lives having made a mental note not to take part in any talent shows. Not so with one man who had given up his day job 7 months ago in order to practice for the competition. He had a recurring dream in which he collected the trophy. He was utterly convinced he was going to win. And then he “sang”. The man couldn’t carry a tune in a suitcase - he was just plain awful. The poor, poor man.

Presumably when this guy sings he is hearing something quite wonderful in his ears rather than the katzenjammer coming from his mouth. The brain can seriously distort our senses, if painfully skinny anorexics can see themselves as being fat, it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that painfully bad singers hear themselves sounding uncannily like Sinatra. And, I guess we’ve all been guilty of pretending to enjoy a friend’s artwork from time to time even when we’re fully aware that it’s a pile of pooh. But surely someone should have cared enough to let him know that singing’s not the ideal outlet for his creativity before he got to turn himself into a prime-time prat.

It would be possible to put the show together in such a way that this bizarre gathering of the nation’s Eleanor Rigby’s was played for laughs. A sneering Clive James or Chris Tarrant presenting the nation’s funniest talent show failures probably would make a pretty popular show. The X-Factor takes the approach of letting contestants make fools of themselves (i.e. do their act) but will talk to them before and afterwards and make sure you know how much it means to them. It would take a pretty hard-hearted person not to feel any compassion.

The reason this show works as reality TV is that it’s all eyes on the prize not on the camera. Turgid shows like Big Brother are full of people who have nothing to say beyond “look at me, I’m on the telly” whereas here people are entirely focussed on the three people in front of them who can make or break their dreams. They’re standing there stark naked for all the world to see with everything to gain and everything to lose. When you see people that openly you form an emotional attachment to them in a matter of seconds - something I’d imagine you’d have to endure a great many hours of Big Brother in order to achieve.

A trawl through some of the darker corners of Britain’s sporting heritage

Imagine the scene: an autumnal Sunday evening in a sleepy Welsh market town; anticipation hangs palpably in the air, there is a rising sense of uncertainty, throats become tighter and dryer by the second. Not only is there the normal pre-match excitement but tonight is special - there is a new star on display. The player selection stage (accomplished by the traditional combination of coin-tossing, spoofing and shouting) is unbearably tense but I emerge triumphant - I have the new vet! No idea how good he’s going to be, at all. I believe he’s Tristram cousin or somesuch but I’m ready for it and I launch into song:

We’re on the march with Callum’s army
We’re going to the surgery!
And we’ll really shake ‘em up when we win the vet’s cup
‘Cos Callum is the greatest vetneree!

Cans are opened and immediately emptied. This one’s going to be big. The Tristram Farnham boot boys bide their time as a mighty roar of “Herriot! Herriot! Herriot!” rises from the back along with some rather unsporting murmering about the perils of having drawn Siegfried from the left; the theme music kicks in and one of the classic games of Veterinary Hooliganism is underway.

What’s that? You don’t know how to play the beautiful game? Okay, here’s how it works. Take a bunch of people (either men-folk or potty-mouthed girls who drink pints - the latter are preferred), a television set, a stack of beer-cans and a working knowledge of football chants. Whilst waiting for long-running, light-hearted veterinary drama “All Creatures Great and Small” to begin, divide the players into three groups of fans (four if you happen to know Callum will be along for a spot of guest vetting) and support your vet by any combination of chanting, shouting and missile-throwing that you deem appropriate. The method of division is entirely up to the players and should not in any circumstances be agreed in advance or it’s no fun. Experienced players will of course realise that Herriot nearly always wins ‘cos he wrote the books but Tristram is often worth a punt, and as we shall see later the boy Callum is something of a star. Siegfried is generally too tied up in the adminstration of the practice to get round to scoring any goals, which is a great shame because he’s every bit as good as Marco van Basten when he’s on form. Goals? Simple. A goal is scored every time an animal’s life is unequivocably saved by the vet - you don’t get anything for a spontaneous recovery - not in this game. There are a few more complex rules such as arms in cows being used as a surrogate count-back penalty shoot-out if it’s all square after 60 minutes but participants are generally encouraged to create and to squabble over such details while the game is in progress.

Now that’s cleared up we can get back to the big match - the 1989 UEFA Veterinary Cup Final. The Scottish lad has arrived on the Yorkshire vetting scene as a complete unknown but is set to rapidly make a name for himself. Tristram tries and fails to fix the farmer’s horse but Callum is there on the rebound with a lightning diagnosis and a clinical strike. Goal!!!!!! 1-0-0-0, Callum’s blue and white veterinary army are going at it to full effect; Tristram’s confidence is waning; Herriot is looking uncharacteristically subdued and Siegfried is having one of his more anonymous days. There can be only one result, surely. As half-time draws near, Callum approaches an ailing cow. He shoots! He scores! Two-nil-nil-nil to the Scottish boy! The crowd goes wild and things reach fever-pitch as the new signing steals the show and his silky skills lead us to an emphatic 4-1-0-0 victory (Herriot grabbing a late consolation piglet). Though many of us were unable to recollect the extended and passionate post-match celebrations the next morning, the match will live forever in the hearts and minds of all those who were present. One simply doesn’t see vetting of that quality everyday, Brian.