Oo oo oo the Spunky Fruitbat

I've got a new record player. I had one when I was a lad, of course, but its not worked since 1992, so now I have a nice new one. I've never really got used to the compact disc - I still occasionally get up to turn it over when one finishes, though trying to make out music through the cracks and whistle of ancient, dusty vinyl requires the most patient and discriminating of ears. I've been listening anew to a lot of records I'd forgotten I had; first on was a range of punk classics which I haven't managed (or been arsed) to upgrade to CD, starting with the frankly awesome Spiral Scratch by The Buzzcocks. Everyone should listen to this at least once in their lives - forget the Sex Pistols, this is the record that really spawned punk. The guitar solo in 'Boredom' has to be heard to be believed (two notes ... not as diabolical as it sounds). Followed by the first Clash album, the Ruts, some early Joy Division, and then Jimi Hendrix and Funkadelic.

I then drifted forward a few years to my, err, early-nineties heyday. There were quite a few bands around then that I was fairly obsessed with. First, The Wedding Present - the Four Songs EP. I was amazed to find that this is still most enjoyable. The Weddoes were always a jolly band, despite their love-lorn, doom-laden lyrics. But after a quick jump around to 'Take Me! I'm Yours' I decided to take a deep, dark plunge into the barely remembered world of 'classic' Indie - Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. You might remember them. Me and what seemed like most of the teenage population of London started listening to them in the 6th form, went to a few gigs and were swiftly smitten. Two blokes, Jimbob and Fruitbat, both with guitars, and a drum machine. I suppose some arty music-degree types would say they pioneered sample-laden guitar-based neo-punk, or something. They reached their career apogee by kicking the shit out of Philip Schofield, of all people, live on telly at the Brit awards - vintage stuff. You wouldn't get McFly performing a public service like that nowadays. Carter were also style gurus for a generation; Fruitbat always wore baggy shorts and a cycling hat (copied by me), while Jimbob's head was entirely shaven bar a long, slender river (or, indeed, a horn) of hair at the front that snaked down over the face (copied by me, to disastrous effect). Sadly, Carter's music has stood the test of time about as well as their fashion sense. In fact, its embarrassingly bad. I stuck on their 'breakthrough' album, '30 Something', which I remember at the time thinking was The Greatest Record I've Ever Heard. Oh dear.

But perhaps I am being a bit harsh. They were of their time, and I was a big fan for, oh, a year or so. A few months ago I was at a Chas n' Dave gig, would you believe. In the bar beforehand I saw someone standing with their back to me, shortish with a woolly hat and large ears, and I thought to myself "that's Fruitbat" - and when he turned round it bloody was as well. The last time I'd seen him had been when he signed a T-shirt for me at a gig, back in the Stone Age. I couldn't quite believe that I'd recognised him - from behind - after all these years, but I realised that it was actually all down to the slightly unusual angle of Fruitbat's ears, together with the hat - unique and diagnostic characteristics. Now, (and this is quite a segue but go with me on this), there is a name for this sort of ID in the birding world - where you recognise something without quite knowing why, from shape, size, movement and posture, often out of the corner of one's eye. And its my duty to inform you that the internationally approved term for this, almost unbelievably, is jizz.

Jizz. A word that also means, well, sperm, usually in the context of 'spurting'. Sorry to descend to such vulgarity, but there is so much fun to be had with this in the staid birding world. For once, our transatlantic cousins are a step ahead. Accidentally mention jizz to US birders and you will get uncomprehending looks of astonishment and horror, and occasional helpless mirth. British birders, by contrast, use the term indiscriminately and in the politest of conversations. I have genuinely heard birders discussing 'gull jizz' without a trace of shame; there's also warbler jizz, wader jizz, even bat and dragonfly jizz. So much jizz flying about. So the next time you see someone you faintly recognise but you don't know why, blame it on the jizz. Just try not to step in it.


Celebrity spots
A spectacular, perhaps never-to-be-repeated week. First, Danny Baker buying crisps in the newsagents in Dean Street. Again, the initial ID was 'jizz' based - scruffy, short and balding. The years have not been kind to the former TV funnyman. Later that same day, cowering from the rain during a fire drill at the production company next door, none other than Harry Enfield, Paul Whitehouse and Geoffrey Perkins - who knows what mischief they were planning? And finally, 'star' of reality show 'Its not easy being green' Dick Strawbridge. The possessor of the finest moustache on television, Dick was bravely taking on a Guinness in the pub next door - top work.



Strawbridge (right) with some bint.


Recommendations
Once they came to conquer, pillage and plunder. Nowadays the norsemen simply steal our football clubs. West Ham's brave new era begins at home to Sheffield United on saturday, who I am backing at 4-1 (Paddy Power) to win. Ho hum.
Meanwhile The Ashes starts tomorrow, of course, and England have already been virtually written off. I think it will be much tighter than the pundits are predicting ... 19-5 the draw for the crucial First Test looks pretty long.
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