Sadly, it was at this stage that I ran into a bit of a problem. I’ve played the album a lot over the past couple of weeks, and I have had to conclude – reluctantly – that there just aren’t enough truly great songs here to put the album up there with Fair Warning, II or Women and Children First. There are certainly some terrific moments to enjoy; ‘She’s the Woman’ taps effortlessly into the early Van Halen vibe, ‘You and Your Blues’ is purposeful and mean, and the quirky ‘Stay Frosty’ finds DLR in his full-on Vaudevillean element. Best of all, for me, is the autobiographical ‘Blood and Fire’, which pulls off that difficult trick of kicking serious ass while betraying a surprising poignancy. ‘Tattoo’, it turns out, is far from the best song on the album, the best moments of which render it clearly essential for long-standing fans of the band. Elsewhere, though, the band’s schtick tends to wear a bit thin, with the songwriting standards of the album falling ultimately short of its incredible musicianship, and occasionally struggling to retain the listener’s full and undivided attention. Back in the day, of course, Roth-fronted Van Halen albums only ran to about half an hour of playing time; if they’d adopted that policy once more, maybe they would have blown my mind again. Today’s music fans wouldn’t wear it though, and I am afraid to say that the hour-plus of music on offer here only sporadically hits the heights of the lean masterpieces earlier mentioned.

For any fans who fervently disagree, and are convinced that Dave and the VH boys actually have stormed back with a career-defining album, I say a hearty mazal tov to you, and enjoy. In all honesty, much as I would have loved to, I can’t say the same.

10. Chess: The Turk (Oxford Computer Publishing, 1983)

There were plenty of decent chess sims to choose from for Spectrum users back in the day – but for sophistication married to a certain indefinable cosiness, Chess: The Turk wins the day for me. The one flaw with the game is the fact that, on the highest levels, the computer’s ridiculously long thinking time makes the game practically unplayable (unless you’re hoping to finish War and Peace at the same time). Luckily, Level 4 is plenty challenging enough for a patzer like me.

Play while listening to: Mahler’s 4^th Symphony.

9. Xeno (A ‘n’ F Software, 1986).

A rather bizarre futuristic sports game, kind of like hockey, in which you zip around the pitch in what looks like a giant puck, trying to knock the ball into your opponent’s goal. Addictive and immensely playable, the only real problem is that, after a while you will probably get the hang of scoring direct from your computer opponent’s puck-off pretty much every time (to get around this, and keep the competitive element of the game alive, I advise imposing a rule on yourself of having to go backwards on your first move, after the computer pucks off).

Play while listening to: Aerosmith, Rocks.

8. Quazatron (Hewson Consultants Ltd, 1986).

An ingenious sci-fi arcade adventure, with cutting edge (at the time) isometric 3D graphics, in which you are humble repair droid KLP2, battling the might of the Quazatron technopolis of Quartech. Like many of the best speccy games, Quazatron is wonderfully imaginative, evoking a strange universe-unto-itself, with charm and panache. Quarktastic!

Play while listening to: Rush, 2112.

7. Fairlight (The Edge, 1985).

The 3D isometric fantasy side of Quazatron‘s sci-fi coin, Fairlight (along with its sequel) is absorbing, epic and delightfully atmospheric. I still haven’t managed to complete it, but frankly, that’s the way I like it. Onward, Isvar, and smite those rascally orcs!

Play while listening to: Ten, Spellbound.

6. Ikari Warriors (Argus Press Software Ltd, 1987).

Modelled squarely on Elite’s classic Commando, but improving on the earlier game in terms of scope and playability, this scrolling military shoot-em-up is a top laugh, and fun to play in the two player mode. It ain’t rocket science, that’s for sure – just power manfully ahead, and take out as many enemy soldiers as you can! Commandeer a tank, and you can just mow ‘em down . . .

Play while listening to: Poison, Greatest Hits.

5. Chucky Egg (A ‘n’ F Software, 1984).

Ah, Henhouse Harry. A classic early game that brings out the competitive spirit in all of us, zipping around those platforms and ladders, scooping up the eggs (and the birdseed for extra points), and steering clear of the pesky chickens who are as keen to take you out as they are to gobble up the birdseed. The game gets increasingly hectic, chaotic and intense the further along you go – but the promise of the glory of a new high score will keep you glued to it for sure!

(Also meriting honourable mention is the suitably bonkers Jet Set Willy-esque sequel released by A ‘n’ F in 1985.)

Play while listening to: Uriah Heep, Wonderworld.

4. Batty (Hit-Pak, 1987).

Quite simply, the King of Breakout Clones. Smooth, slick, and scarily addictive, with some brilliantly designed screens, this really is one to bring out the steely determination in all of the hardened gamers out there. Speaking of which, I have to make special mention of my so-frequent-nemesis, that horrible pinball-style Screen 9 . . . yeaarghh!

Play while listening to: Journey, Live in Houston 1981.

3. Emlyn Hughes International Soccer (Audiogenic Software Ltd, 1989).

While many sports stars of the decade put their names to some truly shocking computer games, late lamented Liverpool and Question of Sport legend Emlyn Hughes could have been rightfully proud of his own endorsement which ranks, for me, as the all-time greatest speccy footy sim. Some gamers might have been put off by the rudimentary graphics and the inordinately long side-viewed pitch – but if so, they were missing out. The game has tremendous scope for its time, in terms of kick directions and power of passes and shots, headers, backheels, fouls and free kicks – even in-play substitutions! All players are individually scored for speed, defence and attack (all customisable), with players tiring in play, depending on how much of a shift they put in, and also losing fitness when fouled. On top of this, the team and player names are fully editable, with full appearance and goal-scoring statistics being recorded over the course of a season which features the eight teams in league and cup competition. With ten skill levels, match lengths of up to the full ninety minutes (! – I recommend twenty minutes as the optimum length), the option to watch computer vs. computer matches, and a practise mode to master all those tricky skills, Emlyn Hughes undoubtedly offered the most absorbing football experience around for speccy fans.

Play while listening to: Deep Purple, Machine Head.

2. Chaos (Games Workshop, 1985).

The ultimate battle of the wizards, Chaos is an ingenious board game-like fantasy affair that never gets old. You will never tire of taking out Wizard 4 on the first turn with a Magic Bolt or Lightning blast, nor of the megalomaniac rush of commanding an undead Dragon – an opportunity that comes around but very rarely! It’s also great fun to Wall an opponent into a corner and keep hitting him with a flying creature until he succumbs. Perhaps most satisfying of all, though, is starting a Magic Fire or Gooey Blob and then walling yourself in, and watching it spread all over the board to take out your opponents one by one. Even in such a commanding position, though, victory is not assured – if one of your opponents hits you with Justice or Dark Power, your world could come crashing down all around you at a stroke!

Play while listening to: Magnum, Storyteller’s Night: The Collection (especially Disc 1. Nice selection, Mr Ling!).

1. Jet Set Willy II (Software Projects Ltd, 1985).

First there was Manic Miner, and then there was Jet Set Willy, in which the eponymous hero of the earlier game was set loose upon a whole world of surreal and alarming adventure, replete with oodles of Pythonesque humour, as he endeavoured pluckily to fulfil the gargantuan task of clearing up his mansion after a party, at the behest of Maria, his formidable and unbending lady. Jet Set Willy II was basically a new version of the (as it turns out, uncompleteable) original Jet Set Willy – but it was smoother, even crazier, and expanded to what seemed at the time like infeasibly vast proportions for a computer game. The cult status of Jet Set Willy – and the near sacred regard in which our hero is held in certain quarters – is most powerfully attested by the fact that vintage computer buffs continue to write new adventures for him to this day.

Poor Willy. All he wants is to get some sleep – but he’ll have to face a multitude of scary nasties, navigate platforms and rope swings with unerring dexterity and precision, brave the sewers beneath his house, and even take a trip in a rocket before there’s any chance of that. Legendary stuff!

Play while listening to: The speccified Hall of the Mountain king snippet that provides the game’s original soundtrack for as long as you can stand it (about two minutes in my experience) -  and then whack on some Ozzy-era Sabbath. You’ll need to be an Iron Man to get anywhere in this game, and you’ll likely ask yourself the question Am I Going Insane? on more than one occasion in the course of events . . .

No more fiction, that is. Although I couldn’t resist his three slim volumes of memoir published under the banner of Scenes from Provincial Life –Boyhood (1997), Youth (2002) and Summertime (2009) – I abided by a considered decision not to read any of the author’s critical and topical essays until I had finished all of his novels. As an author who frequently grapples, provocatively and arrestingly, with sensitive and ideologically charged material, I didn’t want his opinions to interfere with my reading of his fiction. One of the highest purposes of literature derives from its ability to refresh and renew our entire view of the world – philosophically, politically and empathetically – which is conditional upon a certain degree of openness on the reader’s part that we would rarely be willing to grant of overtly political non-fiction. The less I knew, therefore, about the extents to which the protagonists of Elizabeth Costello (2003) and Diary of a Bad Year (2007) resembled their creator, the better, as far as my engagement with them on the critical first reading was concerned.

I first dipped my toes into the remarkable Coetzee oeuvre with Disgrace (1999) – the troubling, unsettling (an adjective that Coetzee’s fictions frequently summon up) and utterly compelling narrative that bagged him his second Booker Prize and was surely a strong factor in his being awarded the Nobel in 2003. Some years later, I chanced upon Elizabeth Costello,which was equally as compellingly provocative, albeit that it lacked something of Disgrace‘s devastatingly purposeful artistic unity. Fast forward a couple of years more, and then, via Youth, the inevitable breakneck gallop, just concluded, through the Coetzee oeuvre ensued.

Taking an overview of Coetzee’s achievements in fiction, it is impossible not to be powerfully impressed by the intense moral seriousness of his artistic mission, as applied to the tumultuous history of the country of his birth, to contemporary ideological contests and affairs, and to meditative reflection upon the nature of literary enunciation and its place in the life of the human spirit per se. The dark intensity of the early narratives of Dusklands (1974) and In the Heart of the Country (1977) introduced the world to his striking gifts of imaginative empathy, while his Booker prize winning fourth novel, The Life and Times of Michael K. (1983), was distinguished by a pitch-perfect purity of narration and marked by an eloquence that I can only describe as Steinbeckian, in terms both of its overwhelming pathos and its transmogrification of stone-hard brute reality into the stuff of fable. In between, there is that masterly novel of political conscience, Waiting for the Barbarians (1980), some central themes of which were taken up again in Age of Iron (1990), with its vivid depiction of the violence of apartheid lurching towards its death-throes. The latter novel is also notable for a more intimately personal turn that points the way to much of the later fiction, and is surely not unrelated to the author’s recent dedication to memoir. A word, and an emotion, that recurs repeatedly in Age of Iron is ‘shame’, and I am convinced that the seeds of the late masterpiece Disgrace were sown in its author’s mind at this point, as he strove to relate ever more compelling individual histories that invite us to reflect critically upon history (specific and localised, as well as the grandest sweeps) as a determining force in the destiny of individuals. Coetzee’s later fiction – including Elizabeth Costello (which expanded upon the 1999 novella The Lives of Animals, with its frank engagement of the philosophical and ideological dimensions of animal rights debates), Slow Man (2005), in which Elizabeth Costello reappeared to provide an impish counterpoint to the protaganist’s worldview, and Diary of a Bad Year – added a Rothian preoccupation with physical decay to the author’s insistent concerns. The latest novel, for me, might well have been titled Impotence; a condition that resonates in its pages on multiple levels, while also chiming with the overarching bleakness that many readers – rather glibly and superficially, to my mind – bemoan of Coetzee’s work.

Standing somewhat outside this career trajectory, in my experience of the Coetzee canon, are two marvellous performances, Foe (1986) and The Master of Petersburg (1994), which resoundingly attest to the gifts of imaginative empathy earlier alluded to, cast across land, sea, and the reach of centuries; the former is a virtuoso extended riff – if I may be so bold – upon Robinson Crusoe and the latter, a compulsive novelisation of an episode in the life of Dostoevsky that brings the subterranean world of radicalism and nihilistic rebellion in nineteenth-century Russia vividly to life. Across all of this work, it is intriguing to trace the development of the distinctive, laconic Coetzeian voice (which – disorientingly – is equally a feature of the volumes of memoir as of the novels), that masks his artistic designs with a kind of sly elegance, granting his work its powerful capacity to shock and surprise. Significantly, in my reading, Coetzee’s novels invite us to entertain that old, deeply unfashionable, notion of literature as ‘improving’ – not necessarily at the level of top-down ethical didacticism, but certainly in terms of sharpening the reader’s clarity of thought and depth of perception. In these terms, I would suggest, it merits strong commendation for its universal impetus.

In sum, I fervently hope that, contra my title, I have not, in fact, ‘finished’ Coetzee. I certainly look forward to dipping into the volumes of essays he has turned out, and am confident that this worthy Nobel laureate has a few books left in him yet. Juicy ones, if recent performances are anything to go by.

I certainly hope so.

10. Night Ranger: Growin’ Up in California

 Always a firm favourite with discerning melodic rock fans the world over, the mighty Night Ranger stormed back in 2011 with the excellent Somewhere in California – from which was taken the joyous and evocative Growin’ Up in California, perhaps best summed up as the musical equivalent of bottled sunshine. Crank it up, and blast away those winter blues!

9. WhoCares: Out of My Mind

Gillan, Iommi, Lord, Newsted, McBrain (and Linde Lindström from HIM). As supergroups go, it doesn’t get much more super than that. And with this charitable release, the stellar line-up certainly delivered. Built around a characteristically bruising Iommi riff, the song is a quite strikingly successful Sabbath-meets-Purple affair, putting me in mind of Gillan and Lord’s band around the time of The Battle Rages On, while also bearing the delightful Sabbath hallmarks in Iommi’s lead playing as well as his riffage. Let’s hope that the hints of further collaboration between Iommi and Gillan in the near future bear fruit – and if they can get the rest of this formidable assemblage to chip in once more, so much the better!

8. Saint Jude: Down and Out

A heady and wistful bluesy ballad from one of the most exciting new British bands around, this is the perfect end-of-night song, as you sip away at that last glass of red wine and wonder how it got so late so quickly, yet again. Lead vocalist Lynne Jackaman is an astonishing talent – as you will surely agree if you are lucky enough to hear this song performed live!

7. Black Stone Cherry: In My Blood

‘Difficult third album’? Pah! The latest offering from the boys from Kentucky was chock-full of instant classics, most famously including lead single and opener White Trash Millionaire. For me, though, the album’s third track gets the nod as my favourite. Bristling with energy and muscular vitality, and with a hook to die for, this song has had me reaching for the repeat button on more than a few occasions in recent months!

6. Warrant: Sex Ain’t Love

Warrant blasted back into the consciousness of rock fans in May with the gloriously adrenalized Rockaholic, and this barnstorming opening cut – a seismic melée of powerhouse rockin’ and sleazy glam stylings – fairly nails the listener to the wall. 2011 was a very sad year for Warrant fans, with the untimely passing of Jani Lane; lets hope Erik, Jerry, Joey, Steven and Robert can help to keep his memory alive by continuing to create music of this calibre, that is true to the joyfully exuberant spirit and irrepressible sense of fun with which he imbued the band’s performances.

5. Miss Behaviour: Give Her a Sign

Another stunning release from a band only recently brought to my attention, Miss Behaviour’s Last Woman Standing is a gold-plated collection of wonderfully crafted and supremely performed AOR gems. And this powerful uptempo anthem, with its terrific lead guitar breaks, killer hook, and super-cool lead vocal, has been a constant visitor to my metaphorical turntable this year. Pure class.

4. Whitesnake: Fare Thee Well

A heartwarming valedictory offering from Sir David and the boys, this song surely brings a tear to the eyes of ‘Snake fans all over the world in live performance. Firmly and authentically in the rootsy, bluesy spirit of the band’s early years, it’s definitely right up there with Mr Coverdale’s career highlights. Say it ain’t over, Dave!

3. The Answer: Nowhere Freeway

There she goes again . . . Lynne Jackaman lends her talents to this gorgeous driving anthem, dueting with Cormac Neeson on my favourite song from The Answer’s uniformly excellent third album. If you plan on doing that trip of a lifetime down Route 66, make sure you blast this song out a few times along the way!

2. Black Country Communion: Cold

Messrs Hughes, Bonamassa, Sherinian and Bonham wasted no time in following up their superb debut album, delivering a second album of striking depth and quality in record time this year. And, on II, they saved the best for last: an intimate ballad of devastating power, infused with the kind of soulful chords that have always marked Glenn’s songwriting, and blessed with a lead vocal that stands up with anything he has done in his illustrious career. This song will stop you dead in your tracks.

. . . and the winner is . . .

1. Uriah Heep: Trail of Diamonds

Uriah Heep more than matched the impressive standards set by 2008′s Wake the Sleeper with Into the Wild, an album that, for me, unerringly represented the spirit of the band’s early seventies heyday, while also managing to remain strikingly fresh and vital. This uncanny achievement is perfectly epitomised by this wonderfully atmospheric and transportative fantastical epic. Bernie Shaw relishes the role of (David) Byron-esque troubador, and the band play with a passion and conviction that sucks you right in and leaves you with no choice but to lose yourself in the journey. A lot of rock fans probably think that even Uriah Heep don’t write songs like this anymore. They do, and they’re bloody good at it.

Billed, not unjustifiably, as the rock event of the year, I simply could not resist shelling out for my fourth Deep Purple concert (over a fifteen year period), to hear the ‘Songs that Built Rock’ blasted out, accompanied by the 38 piece New Frankfurt Philharmonic Orchestra. The fact that another of my favourite bands – the wonderful Cheap Trick, who I’d never previously seen live – would be opening the show, was more than just a bonus: it was a promise of sheer musical nirvana.

The evening did not disappoint – hell no! I was still finding my seat while Cheap Trick were tearing through Ain’t that a Shame and, when they laid I Want You to Want Me on us a couple of songs later, was distinctly concerned that I might have missed most of their set. Not to worry, though – they had, as it turned out, elected to play their most famous song early in the proceedings, and there were plenty more riches still to be enjoyed from Rockford’s finest. Robin Zander, who has always been one of my favourite vocalists, was in superb voice throughout, and sounded magnificent on If You Want My Love. It was similarly spine-tingling to hear Rick Nielsen rattle off those famous licks and lead breaks on I Want You . . . , while Tom Petersson starred on a rousingly anarchic Sick Man of Europe from their current album, The Latest. Drummer Daxx Nielsen wowed the crowd (at least the sensible ones, who were paying attention) throughout – at once a powerhouse and a whirling dervish of manic energy – while classic songs like Surrender, California Man and Dream Police drove home the fact that those in attendance were in the presence of not one, but two, all-time great rock bands. Up there with I Want You . . . as, for me, the most special moment of their set was their stirring rendition of super-ballad The Flame, which sounded immensely powerful live. Cheap Trick have jokingly referred to themselves as ‘the world’s greatest opening act’, but the songs, musicianship and showmanship they have at their disposal entitles them to legendary status in their own right – a fact that I hope was impressed upon many of the fans in the impressively populated arena.

And then, the Purple. After the orchestra introduced themselves, the palpable anticipation from the audience reached fever pitch as Roger Glover and Ian Paice set the tension-filled intro to Highway Star in motion; since the early seventies, Deep Purple beginning a concert with that song has been acknowledged as one of the most exciting experiences that rock can offer, and it still has that power in spades. Most definitely. As has been their custom in recent years, Purple hit us with several songs in quick succession before Ian Gillan took the opportunity to say hello to the audience and, from the off, it was clear that Messrs. Morse and Airey were up for it and then some, tearing off some scorching solos on Hard Loving Man, Maybe I’m a Leo (gotta dig that funky electric piano!) and Strange Kind of Woman (along with the first song, on which Morse hit just the right crowd-pleasing notes in his take on the iconic solo that wrote Ritchie Blackmore’s name into legend).

I must confess that I got the wrong end of the stick when I first heard that Deep Purple would be touring with an orchestra, immediately calling to mind the ground-breaking symphonic associations of the band’s early history. Mr Gillan had explained in interviews during the tour’s progress that it was not a classical thing, but rather, “an enlarged version of whatever we fancy; think of it as the Count Basie Orchestra rather than something symphonic or a backing unit” (chat with Classic Rock magazine). And what a job they did of augmenting whatever Purple fancied; the brass and percussion often added a distinctly cinematic flavour to the muscular anthems like Smoke on the Water and Highway Star, while the swirling strings on Rapture of the Deep – to name but one song which clearly stood out as crying out for the orchestral treatment – were truly mesmerising. Indeed, the orchestral accompaniments never sounded out of place, and there were many moments of real sublimity to be savoured, such as their interplay with Airey on his wittily Lordly extended solo spot, and the frankly staggering violin solo and subsequent sparring with Morse that graced a rip-roaring Lazy. I was delighted, as always, to hear Woman from Tokyo, with its rollicking piano towards the end, and When a Blind Man Cries was as gorgeous as ever, featuring Gillan’s best vocal of the night, with the song’s melancholy grace powerfully enriched by the bluesy string arrangement. Glover and Paice were audacious enough to unleash their own solo showcases on the crowd very late in the proceedings – but Deep Purple fans are a discerning lot, and rewarded them with the attention and acclaim they deserved. Having briefly departed the stage after Smoke . . . , the band returned to dish out a side order of Green Onions, before sending everyone in the O2 home very happy indeed, with the strains of Hush and Black Night ringing in their ears. Thank you, and goodnight.

It’s quite amusing, in retrospect, to think of the musical culture clash represented by Deep Purple’s Concerto for Group and Orchestra on its first performance in 1969, and the contempt with which the musicians of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra regarded the hairy ‘erberts who had enlisted them for Jon Lord’s bold musical experiment. Watching Purple with an orchestra more than four decades later, I got the feeling that the superb musicians of the New Frankfurt Philharmonic genuinely had a blast playing with one of the greatest rock bands of all time. Deep Purple’s rich back catalogue is indeed worthy of such honorific augmentation, and having had the privilege of seeing and hearing it happen is something that I surely will never forget.

Steeped in rock folklore, with shades of the Stones, Free and the Jimi Hendrix Experience frequently wafting over like ghosts on the wind, the band weave a rich sonic tapestry, propelled by the energetic and accomplished rhythm section of Lee Cook (drums) and Scott Wiber (bass), and sprinkled with the gold dust of the sparkling talents of guitarists Marcus Bonfanti and Ivor Sims, and keyboard ace Eliot Mortimer. And, to cap it all, there is the coup de grâce, the devastating WMD that is frontwoman Lynne Jackaman’s voice. I first heard this remarkable vocalist dueting with Cormac Neeson on my favourite track from the new album from The Answer, ‘Nowhere Freeway’, and, listening to her sing a range of diverse material over the course of a long player, I am constantly astonished by the range of, and character in, her voice, and the maturity of her performances. Some of the extraterrestrial notes she hits towards the end of the live version of sultry ballad ‘Down and Out’ that is appended to the CR edition of the album, are nothing short of spine-tingling. Just as impressive, though, is her command of dynamics; like Steve Perry, Ronnie James Dio, and all the greats, she knows when to hold back, and when to belt it, and is equally compelling on affecting ballads like ‘Down this Road’ and rootsy stompers like ‘Soul on Fire’ and ‘Little Queen’.

Indeed, ‘maturity’ could well be the key word in summing up everything that is impressive about the band as a whole. It’s lovely to hear a large rock ensemble, playing coherently as a unit with such a full sound (often augmented by brass and percussion), and never sounding cluttered or overblown. Mortimer’s keyboards, whether he elects for the Hammond or some very cool and funky electric piano, always add depth and texture to the music – and, especially when he goes to town on the honky tonk, I can’t help but be reminded of another famously big and formidable unit, the mighty Lynyrd Skynyrd. There are also plenty of delicious and tasteful guitar breaks to get your teeth into; I’d like to make special mention of the elegant, Clapton-esque solo at the end of ‘Angel’ as a personal highlight. And bass player Wiber is a star throughout – doesn’t feel a need to be overly flashy or show off, but consistently drives the music forward with some very tidy, astute performances. Great job all round!

I do hope I’ll be able to catch the band on one of their UK dates in December, and I strongly urge British rock fans to do the same, and make sure you add this stunning debut album to your collection – you won’t regret it. Those of us who like it old school really have been spoilt rotten this year.

 It is a truth universally acknowledged that every cloud has a silver lining and, indeed, the tumultuous events leading to Rob’s sudden passing had at least removed the stumbling block to Bartle McClocken’s taking up residence with Poopbert in the flat. On the other hand, Rob was dead, so he was still one flatmate down.

For a while, of course, it seemed that that was the least of his problems. Along with Messrs McClocken, Shaggadonki and MacRennie, he had clearly been in flagrant violation of the Duelling Act of 1840, resulting in the death of a hale and hearty young man (the supplier of the fatal implements had prudently high-tailed it off back to Belgrade on the first flight from Heathrow). However, once Poopbert had shown to the police Rob’s email issuing the challenge, all parties to the duel had been let off with cautions, the constabulary agreeing that the ill-starred cosmologist had clearly gone in with his eyes open.

Poopbert had hoped that McClocken’s illustrious poet friend would move in, but young Mr MacRennie had stunned both students by suddenly, and without warning, sodding off to Northampton (which, as he subsequently explained, was the only place for a poet to be in this day and age). So, for this month at least – term being under way, and most students having sorted out their accommodation for the year – Poopbert and Mr Bartle McClocken would have to split the whole of the rent between the two of them. The former was able to take some extra shifts at the kebab shop to absorb the burden, while the latter was emphatically a gentleman of leisure, especially since his course had a middle-of-term ‘study week’ designated shortly after he’d moved in, leading to what was something of a reversal of roles, from Poopbert’s point of view.

“I might go to the supermarket later” he said on the Wednesday morning, as he prepared to head off to campus, “do we need anything?”

“As a matter of fact” said Bartle, lolling on the sofa leafing through the latest edition of Zoo, “I happened to notice that they had some proper London jellied eels there last time I went. I have a yen for some jellied eels.”

“Alright, I’ll pick some up on the way back.”

Poopbert returned, loaded up with shopping, at about four o’ clock; as well as having taken care of his new housemate’s request, he’d got some basic essentials: milk, eggs, bread, Fridge Raiders.

“Did you get my jellied eels?” asked Bartle eagerly, still in the same position on the sofa, as Bargain Hunt blared away for the benefit of no-one in particular.

“Uh-huh” said Poopbert, handing him a shopping bag, “check it out.”

“What the . . ?” cried Bartle, stunned, as he opened up the bag, “Rowntree’s jelly?”

“Yep. Buy one get one free, like you said. I got loads, man – loads!”

“But I asked for jellied eels!”

“I know. You said they had jelly deals at the supermarket, and you were right. So I took advantage.”

“What are you blithering about? I wanted jellied eels!”

“I KNOW!” shouted Poopbert, frustrated, “and I found a deal on jelly, and bought some for you. What’s your problem, man?”

“No, you idiot – jellied eels. Eels. In jelly. Traditional Cockney grub. God help me, what have I got myself into?”

“Ooooh!” said Poopbert, the penny finally dropping.

“‘Jelly deals’” sneered Bartle, shaking his head in disgust, “do I look like Ronnie bloody Corbett, or something?”

“A little.”

“Well, what are we going to do with all this sodding jelly? What are we, five years old or something? We’ve got the party coming on Friday night!”

“We’ll look like idiots” said Poopbert, gloomily.

“We will! No thanks to you.”

II

 Poopbert spent his whole shift that night cursing himself for his stupidity, and, the next day, he didn’t bother going into campus, but instead wandered the streets and rode the tube at random, moping around. He ended up in central London and, as he was walking down Millbank, suddenly espied a grizzled elderly gentleman attending a seafood stand. Redemption!

“Hello there!” he said excitedly, “you don’t happen to have jellied eels, do you?”

“Sorry” replied the man in a thick West Country accent, “we’re all out of eels today. Got some lovely fresh oysters, though?”

Poopbert eyed the articles curiously.

“No, thanks” he said, repelled but fascinated.

“Naah” drawled the merchant, “didn’t think you liked oysters. You’re a whelk man, aren’t you?”

“Yes” whispered Poopbert, as if struck by a bolt of revelation, “yes, I am. I’m a whelk man!”

“Two hundred grams do you?” said the man, shovelling them into a tub.

“Make it three hundred!”

He returned to the flat in high spirits, sure that his purchase would restore him in Bartle’s good graces. His mood, though, sunk once more when he saw the state of the flat.

“Oh man, you could at least have done the washing up!” he complained, as Noel wittered on about the banker.

“After the ‘jelly deals’ fiasco, you should count yourself lucky I didn’t just pack my bags and clear off” sniffed Bartle.

“Yeah? Well, I think that’s a bad attitude – a bad attitude! Anyway, while we’re on that subject, look what I got today!”

He held the tub aloft, proudly.

“Jellied eels?” smiled Bartle, clapping his hands.

“Sorry, the guy was all out of eels today. But I did get some delicious fresh whelks. How about that?”

“Oh really?” said Bartle disappointed, “no, I’m not a whelk man, myself. You’ll have to polish them off yourself.”

“Fair enough, more for me.”

“Aren’t you going to have them now?”

“Erm” said Poopbert uncertainly, putting them on the top shelf off the fridge, “no, not right now. I’ll finish them off later.”

With that, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” said Bartle.

“Hi, Mr Shaggadonki” said Poopbert amiably as the landlord shuffled into the flat.

“Hello guys. Who’s this one?” he asked, pointing at the poster that had recently deposed Megan Fox in the sitting room’s prime position.

“Jessica-Jane Clement – his favourite” said Poopbert.

“I didn’t say she was my favourite” retorted Bartle testily, “I have very refined and sophisticated tastes, that couldn’t possibly be reduced to something so banal and mundane as a ‘favourite’.”

“Oh right, the chick from the jungle” said Mr Shaggadonki, “very nice. Hey, what the blahdy ‘ell? Jelly? What are you, six years old or something?”

His eye had just been caught by the stack of Rowntree’s boxes piled up next to the fridge in the kitchenette.

“Yes, we have Poopbert to thank for that” said Bartle.

“It was a mix-up” explained Poopbert, “I was supposed to be buying jellied eels.”

“And now we’re going to look like idiots” said Bartle, “I’ve got my party on Friday night. What are we going to do with all this jelly?”

“Well” shrugged Mr Shaggadonki, “it’s a not so bad. You know, chop up some bananas and mangoes with it, could be quite nice, like a conversation piece. You know, quirky, like.”

“But I don’t want to be ‘quirky’!” cried Bartle, “I’ve got graduate students, people from the faculty, coming over – including girls. A very refined and sophisticated crowd! This was supposed to be my entrée. I don’t want to be quirky, I want to be aloof, mysterious, enigmatic!”

“Well you’ll just have to make the best of it” said Mr Shaggadonki curtly, “anyway, I came to say that the gas man is going to be checking the place over tomorrow morning, so someone will have to be in.”

“No problem” said Poopbert.

III

That evening, having done a more than passable job of clearing the place up ahead of the party, for two such typically feckless individuals, Poopbert and Bartle settled down to enjoy take-out pizza and a few beers while watching West Brom’s famous triumph over AC Milan in the Europa League.

“I notice you still haven’t finished those whelks” observed Bartle, “aren’t you going to have them now? I should have thought they’d be jolly nice washed down with a couple of cold ones.”

“No, not right now” said Poopbert, “I might have them later on tonight, if I’m still hungry.”

“I should” said Bartle, “wouldn’t do to let them go to waste.”

After Bartle had gone to bed, Poopbert got the whelks out and opened up the tub, pondering them cautiously. He cursed the fact that the curious articles appeared to him to be no more appetising to his predilections than snails, or sprouts. He drew one to his lips but, in spite of his mild inebriation, still could not bring himself to try it. Sealing up the tub, he stuffed it down to the bottom of the rubbish bin, making sure it was concealed beneath the rest of the waste.

The next morning, the day of the party, Poopbert rose late, and was surprised to note that his flatmate was dressed, and had made, and dispatched, a full English breakfast.

“I see you finished the whelks, old chap” said Bartle cheerfully, “nice, were they?”

“Delicious” said Poopbert, “I’ll have to get some more soon.”

“Yes, you will” said Bartle, “there’s nothing like a favourite seafood, is there? Anyway, I’m going to pop out and get some more booze for the party. Can you make the jelly today?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Great. I might as well take the trash out while I’m going” said Bartle, pulling the black sack out of the bin and hefting it over his shoulder.

“See you later.”

IV

The party seemed to be going off swimmingly. Much to Poopbert’s surprise, a couple of lecturers had indeed graced them with their presence, cramping themselves into the small flat and mingling sociably with the students. And, even more significantly, there actually were girls, some of whom Poopbert had conversed with, being characteristically non-committal about the nature of his own studies at the university as he did so. The jelly was a hit, and, oddly, the only downer on the evening seemed to be Bartle himself, who had retreated into a wallflower-like mode, having singularly failed to ingratiate himself with the brains with his awkward attempts at shop talk.

Sensing this, a fetching young lady in a pink mini-dress, with green eyes, long auburn hair and an engaging smile, wandered over to come to his rescue. Bartle recalled her from a seminar group from last term, but had not taken the opportunity to make her acquaintance properly.

“Would you like to dance?” she asked brightly. Deep Purple’s ‘Super Trouper’ blasted out on the stereo, and the middle of the sitting room had been cleared for the benefit of anyone who wished to divert himself thus.

“Dancing” replied Bartle sniffily, “is how people who can’t play musical instruments express their frustration.”

“Suit yourself” she shrugged.

“I’ll dance with you!” said Poopbert.

“Great, what’s your name?”

“Poopbert.”

“I’m Carol. What are you studying?”

“Oh, this and that.”

As the pair bopped away merrily, Poopbert’s gangling contortions greatly amusing his new friend, Bartle looked on sulkily. Towards the end of the song, he marched over to the fridge and, having retrieved a small tub, turned the music down and tapped on his glass with a fork to get everyone’s attention.

“First of all” he began, “I’d like to thank you all for coming out to our little soirée. It’s wonderful to see so many friends and colleagues, and I hope you’re all having a great time.”

Applauding, the throng cheered their assent.

“Most of all” continued Bartle, “I wanted to thank my dear friend Poopbert for allowing me to share this fantastic flat with him. And, as a token of my appreciation, I’ve bought him a little present – a tub of his favourite seafood, some delicious fresh whelks.”

“Oh, thanks man, you shouldn’t have” said Poopbert, taking the tub, as the guests warmly applauded.

“So” said Bartle, “be civilised, then – eat some whelks.”

Shame-faced, Poopbert stood there, staring apprehensively at the tub.

“Go on, Poopbert!” cried one of the lecturers, “have a whelk!”

“I don’t want one!” he spluttered.

“No” said Bartle, pacing around him triumphantly, “it’s just as I thought. You don’t really like whelks, do you? You just like the idea of eating whelks. The truth is, you’re just not a whelk man!”

“I am!” cried Poopbert tearfully, “I am a whelk man!”

And with that, he ran straight out of the door with the tub, as the gales of laughter, from all except Carol, rang around the flat.

V

The next morning, with Bartle having made his way across the city for Millwall’s early kick off, Mr Shaggadonki popped around to check up on his favourite tenant.

“I’m telling you, you’ve got to get rid of this guy” he counselled, “I mean, Rob was a bit of a bell-end, but this McClocken guy, he’s poison. First he kills Rob, and then last night with this whelk thing . . . pssssh!”

“You’re right” said Poopbert, shaking his head, “you’re absolutely right.”

5. Ten Years After: Live at the Fillmore East 1970 (released 2001). A much better reflection of the exemplary talents of these British blues rock titans than the Recorded Live (1973) set that was released towards the tail end of their heyday, this lavish double CD set is full of moments of live sublimity that more than justify comparisons to their more illustrious contemporaries, Cream. Epic head trips such as ‘Love Like a Man’ and ’50,000 Miles Beneath My Brain’, both clocking in at just under ten minutes, feature staggering instances of marvellously fluid extended soloing from Alvin Lee, while the more frenetic workouts find the guitar supremo engaging in some mesmerising sparring with the formidable bass behemoth that is Leo Lyons. Utterly brilliant, and criminally underrated.

 4. Magnum: Marauder (1980). Ah, early Magnum. So frequently ridiculed, and so unfairly maligned – notably, for reasons that I am still unable to fathom, by the guy who actually wrote the songs, Mr Tony Clarkin. I don’t care what anyone says, for me, Magnum’s peak as songwriters and recording artists was the pre-On a Storyteller’s Night era (allowing for the wobble that was The Eleventh Hour (1983), and for the fact that the redefining, commercial-glory-heralding Storyteller’s Night (1985) deserves to be regarded as a classic in its own right). To me, early Magnum brilliantly continued a venerable British tradition of epic fantasy rock inaugurated by Uriah Heep, and thankfully prolonged to this day by Gary Hughes and Ten.

Alongside the proto-AOR genius of ‘Changes’ and ‘If I Could Live Forever’, the original 1980 release of Marauder featured superb renditions of stirring yarns such as ‘The Battle’, ‘Reborn’ and ‘Lords of Chaos’ – pints of mead and Fighting Fantasy gamebooks at the ready, people! Later remastered editions of the album also tagged on the band’s stunning, contemporaneous Live at the Marquee EP, which featured more of their best fantasy-themed songs: ‘All of My Life’, ‘Invader’, ‘Great Adventure’ and ‘Kingdom of Madness’. Smooth-toned troubadour Bob Catley sold all of this material just as convincingly as the ballads, for which his affinity is legendary; and, for all five protagonists, perhaps the finest moment is the shimmering eight minute musical journey that is ‘In the Beginning’. Mr Clarkin, I’m begging you – we need more of this stuff back in the set now!

 3. Rush: All the World’s a Stage (1976). Rush are undisputed live album kings. Not only because they are inarguably three of the most staggeringly gifted and inventive musicians ever to grace the rock genre, but also because they have had an uncanny knack of marking every phase of their startling evolution with a top-notch souvenir of the live Rush experience at the time. Asked to pick my favourite live Rush album, I think I’d more often than not go for their first – even though they undoubtedly went on to greater and more progressive things at later points in their career. All the World’s . . . captures the band recapitulating the best of the significantly Zepp-infused material from their first three albums while also marking the beginning of the next phase of their evolution with an astounding performance of the title track of their breakthrough album, 2112 (1976). The impeccable trio of Lee, Lifeson and Peart play with aggression and youthful vibrancy throughout, while also alerting the world to the cultured refinement they all commanded as instrumentalists, that would become their hallmarks. Highlights? The extended take on early epic ‘By-Tor and the Snow Dog’ is almost as compelling as ’2112′, while shorter cuts such as ‘Bastille Day’ and the aptly titled ‘Anthem’ bristle with energy and élan. Oh, and just how great does Geddy Lee’s voice sound on those songs?

 2. Uriah Heep: Live (1973). In contrast to Deep Purple, the giddying chaos of whose live performances always swirled around the serene and remarkably unflappable Roger Glover, Uriah Heep’s classic line-up is notable for the extraordinary fact that it did not have an anchorman, as is attested by this remarkable warts & all double album that caught the band at the height of their early 70s glory. The frantic powerhouse drumming of Lee Kerslake; Mick Box’s pulsating wah-wah guitar snarling away like a terrier on speed; the antics of flamboyant frontman par excellence David Byron, balanced by a pure voice that could attain to moments of real sublimity in spite of his lack of technical polish; the unbridled aggression with which Ken Hensley attacked the Hammond organ (when he wasn’t playing a dazzlingly mean slide guitar on ‘Tears In Your Eyes’); and the magnificently free-flowing, ceaselessly inventive brilliance of bass guitar genius Gary Thain – all of these elements amounted to a frontal musical assault that was all the more exhilarating for the sense of teetering on the brink of disaster that always accompanied the ride. This legendary set, recorded on a January night in Birmingham, is chock-full of magic moments from the late, great messrs Byron and Thain (notably, ‘July Morning’ for the former, ‘Sweet Lorraine’ for the latter – and ‘Sunrise’ for both of them) and confirms beyond doubt that, at their best, Uriah Heep were among the very greatest live bands that Britain ever produced.

 1. Journey: Greatest Hits Live (released 1998). Come on, Classic Rock. Could anyone seriously argue that the classic line-up of Journey is not a contender for the title of Greatest Live Rock Band of All Time? I could easily have included the earlier Captured (1981) live opus, still featuring Greg Rolie, and wonderfully showcasing the strength of Journey’s pre-Escape material. However, I decided to elect for this collection, featuring the ultimate Perry/Schon/Cain/Valory/Smith incarnation of the band at the very peak of their powers, from 1981-1983, and including what are arguably the definitive versions of many of their most famous songs. So many magical moments are to be found here: ‘Don’t Stop Believin” divested of its more recent associations and abounding with the emotional power that make it an enduring classic; the jaw-dropping solo duelling of Schon and Cain in ‘Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin” (and check out Perry on the second verse); the fragile beauty of ‘Faithfully’ and ‘Open Arms’; the irresistible sugar rush of ‘Any Way You Want It’; the bittersweet end-of-night melancholia of ‘Still They Ride’; the gun-slinging fireworks of ‘Line of Fire’ . . . frankly, I feel bad about not name-checking every single song. Truly a masterclass of peerlessly refined and utterly captivating musicianship, the only gripe I can have with this essential album is the fact that one of my all-time favourite songs, that was always superb live – ‘The Party’s Over (Hopelessly in Love)’ – is not included.

Final comment: for anyone who struggles to understand why so many fans just can’t stomach the idea of Journey without Steve Perry, the music on this disc explains it over and over again. Three words made famous by Tina Turner: Simply. The. Best.

Update: And then, of course, there’s the one that occurs to you immediately after you’ve posted – being Lynyrd Skynyrd‘s magisterial One More from the Road (1976). Sorry, Rush, Magnum and TYA – you’ll have to bump down a place!

The first thing to note is just how fired up the boys sound, with the opening triple-punch of ‘Waste Your Tears’, ‘Use Me’ and ‘Trouble’. From the moment the blues-noodling that introduces the album gives way to the opening cut, the listener is left in no doubt as to how much their globe-trotting antics with the no-nonsense hard rock legends from down under have revitalised them, nor how inspired they have been by the location in which they recorded the album (being Sonic Ranch, in deepest Texas). The familiar reference points – Free and Led Zeppelin – are still there in spades, but a distinct southern twang in the playing is more to the fore than ever; just check out Paul Mahon’s scorching solo on ‘Caught on the Riverbed’ for a classic case in point. The band play with such energy and brio on these songs that you can’t help delighting in the sheer exuberance of this utterly focussed and delightfully unpretentious unit. Meanwhile, there is ‘Nowhere Freeway’, featuring guest vocals from Saint Jude frontwoman Lynne Jackaman and one of the biggest hooks on the album. It is a joyful rush, and, for my money, one of the songs of the year; likewise, ‘Vida (I Want You)’ bores itself into your consciousness by the second chorus and promises to be a rip-roaring communal delight in live performance. I would also like to make special mention of the short-but-sweet semi-ballad ‘Can’t Remember, Can’t Forget’ which, for me, is a real highlight; although he’s a very different kind of singer, I can’t help but be reminded of Mark Slaughter by Cormac, just because his voice sounds so incredible in the higher registers. Replete with backing vocals and a storming fast section, the equally infectious ‘One More Revival’ brings proceedings to a breakneck crescendo before the boys take it down to conclude on a more introspective note with the brooding ‘Lights are Down’. All in all, the album is a tour de force of vibrant, passionate hard rock which I would heartily commend to anyone who wants the genre to continue to flourish in the coming years and decades (take care to get the limited edition while it’s hot, too, which contains the bonus After the Revival disc, featuring plenty of goodies, including excellent acoustic and alternative takes on some of the album’s best songs).

So, about owning the decade? Well, it’s quite an ambition, and time will have to tell on that one. However, if these highly talented and immensely likeable lads from Northern Ireland can turn out albums of this quality every couple of years, they’ll certainly stake a strong claim. Like the rest of us, they don’t have all the answers – but they’re definitely part of the solution!