Johnny Come Lately

Champions League football returned to Switzerland last night as FC Zürich took on the mighty galacticos of Real Madrid and the Swiss Rambler just had to be there to see the likes of Cristiano Ronaldo, Kaka, Raul, Xabi Alonso and Iker Casillas strut their stuff.

In a move that some in the paranoid English media had perceived as another attack on Premier League teams, UEFA President Michel Platini had amended the Champions League qualifying process to favour teams who had won their national leagues, one result being that Switzerland had a representative in the group stages for the first time since Thun in 2005. Unfortunately for me, FCZ (pronounced Eff-Say-Zed) did not draw my beloved Arsenal, but they did end up in a highly attractive looking section with Real Madrid, AC Milan and Marseille.

FCZ’s home ground is the Letzigrund, better known to many as the venue for the Weltklasse, the famous athletics meeting where the fast track and golden prizes tempt the world’s best athletes. The ground was rebuilt for the Euro 2008 Championships, but still has a limited capacity of 24,500. This is more than sufficient for the average Swiss League match, but meant that tickets for the Champions League (sold as a three game package) were like gold dust.

Although priority was naturally given to the faithful season ticket holders, a handful of tickets were made available to the rest of the public. Somehow, I managed to get hold of one, or, more accurately, Mrs. Swiss Rambler used her well-known blend of ingenuity and persistence to secure one for me as an early birthday present. God bless her.

"A world-class winker"

The stadium is pretty much what you would expect from the Swiss, being functional, comfortable and obviously very well organised. Getting to the ground is a piece of cake, as it has its own tram stop and extra trams are laid on for any big event. You might have to make the journey with a fellow passenger’s backside uncomfortably close (and it’s hardly ever an attractive young woman standing next to you, more likely an overweight middle-aged bloke smelling of Eau de Bratwurst), but you can at least be confident of getting to the church on time.

Despite the running track separating the pitch from the spectators, the view is excellent and the atmosphere surprisingly good. My seat was quite close to the Südkurve, which is where the FCZ hardcore fans congregate. They made a lot of noise during the whole game, even finding time to encourage the rest of the stadium to join in with the singing and chanting.

The match itself had a predictable outcome with Real winning 5-2, but, as is so often the case, the scoreline does not tell the whole story. Given that the vast majority of Real’s transfer budget this summer was invested in forwards, it was probably not too surprising that they looked fabulous in attack and rather frail at the back, but they probably did not anticipate having to score two goals in the last two minutes to dismiss the rank outsiders from Zürich.

"What's the time? Five past Zürich"

FCZ actually started quite well, adopting a high energy pressing game in the first 20 minutes to overcome the obvious technical shortfalls against the Madrileños, but then Real stepped up a gear and goals from Cristiano Ronaldo, Raul and Gonzalo Higuain in a devastating 18 minute spell before half-time appeared to have put Real in an unassailable position. FCZ looked totally outclassed and Real could ease towards the interval in cruise control.

Having been taunted by the FCZ fans a few minutes earlier when he ballooned a set-piece over the bar, Ronaldo opened the scoring with a trademark spectacular free-kick from an almost identical position in the 27th minute.

The world-class Portuguese turned creator seven minutes later when he headed a cross into Higuain’s path on the right side of the box (just in front of my seat), from where the ball was squared by the Argentine forward for the inrushing Raul to net his 65th Champions League goal.

The Real captain had been combining beautifully with Higuain and he returned the favour to his strike partner in first half injury time, when his clever reverse pass gave Higuain the opportunity to muscle his way past his marker before easing a low shot past the hapless FCZ keeper.

"On me head, son"

For all Real’s attacking threat, the importance of former Liverpool star Xabi Alonso to the team’s rhythm was impressively evident, as he pulled the strings in midfield in the “quarter-back” role that David Beckham briefly aspired to in the England team. This ensured that Real maintained the lion’s share of possession, playing the game at their own (composed) pace before launching rapid attacks, often making use of the adventurous runs up the left wing by (notional) full-back Royston Drenthe. Alonso’s withdrawal with an ankle injury early in the second half upset their balance to such an extent that it allowed FCZ to launch a stirring comeback.

Xavier Margairaz had already missed a glaring chance when he headed narrowly wide from a corner, before Casillas conceded a penalty after he was adjudged to have brought down Alphonse, though the contact appeared minimal and the fall was more than a touch Eduardo-esque.

No matter, Margairaz coolly slotted the spot-kick past Casillas in the 64th minute, even though the stuttering run-up did not look that of a man confident of scoring.Before the game, Raul had admitted that Margairaz was the only FCZ player he had heard of and the midfielder was now making his considerable presence felt with some delightful touches for a big man (© Peter Crouch), having been utterly anonymous in the first period.

"Here comes the punchline"

Within a minute, FCZ had reduced the deficit to just one, when Aegerter, by no means the tallest man on the park, headed home Vonlanthen’s inswinging corner without a marker in sight. Game on!

Real’s vulnerability in defence is a worrying sign for future matches when they will come up against tougher opposition and for a while they looked disjointed and shaky in this match. Kaka flattered to deceive with his tricky dribbles, while the over-lapping full-backs were restrained by the pace of Johan Vonlanthen on the wing.

After the match, Real coach, Manuel Pellegrini, claimed that his team “always had the game under control”, but there were a few nervous moments before FCZ ran out of ideas and the six yellow cards they collected highlighted Real’s frustration.

Real conclusively put the game to bed in the last minute when FCZ keeper, Johnny Leoni, inexplicably punched a soft Ronaldo free-kick into the roof of the net. Leoni should also have done better with Ronaldo’s first-half shot, which, although struck with great power, was pretty much hit straight at him, but this effort was comical in the extreme.

During the warm-up, I had watched as Leoni dropped a succession of straightforward crosses and had: (1) feared the worst for the loyal FCZ supporters; (2) wondered whether he had any Scottish ancestors. Leoni had been quoted before the game as saying that Ronaldo was only human and it is true that he did not have to do anything special to put two past this pathetic keeper.

On Sky Sports, the inimitable Gordon Strachan suggested that Leoni should have been booked for time wasting … as he was wasting everyone’s time. Deep into injury time, Guti put the icing on the cake with a sublime chip, though his task was made easier by the punch-drunk Leoni wandering into no man’s land.

"Back of the net"

FCZ trainer, Bernard Challandes, had worried before the match (in his highly amusing blend of German and French) that his players would be star-struck in the presence of the Spanish team’s superstars and it certainly felt as if FCZ gave Real far too much respect in the first period.

Challandes is a charismatic figure on the touchline, the cool image of his sharp suit, deep tan and silver hair slightly marred by the constant leaping around and frantic gestures towards his team and the unfortunate match officials. During the half-time break you could imagine Challandes applying the hairdryer, not only to his own locks, but also to his bewildered players, advising them to concentrate on the game plan rather than worry about whose jersey they wanted to swap afterwards.

Switzerland is not the largest country in the world (land mass, population, influence) and the Swiss sometimes have a small town mentality when dealing with international celebrities. The fawning adoration exhibited when the likes of Robbie Williams deign to honour us with their presence is truly embarrassing and it was no different when Real Madrid came to play: the airport arrival lounge was absolutely rammed, while the hotel was besieged with screaming teenagers and those old enough to know better.

On the pitch, the crowd certainly got their money’s worth. They had come to praise Cristiano Ronaldo (or at least serenade him with “hijo de puta” – impressive for the perfect Spanish parlance, depressing for the predictability of the abuse), but they ended up burying poor Johnny Leoni, whose Man of the Match performance gifted the tie to a Real Madrid team that really did not need the help of a clown.

That Night In Barcelona

I enjoyed England’s 5-1 demolition of Croatia on Wednesday evening as much as the next man, particularly after Slaven Bilic’s ill-advised pre-match boast that he had identified a weakness in the English team – perhaps an inability to score six, given that England have now put four and five goals past his hapless team in their last two matches? What I could have done without was Clive Tyldesley, ITV’s “big match” commentator, eagerly scrambling aboard the World Cup bandwagon like a cheerleader on heat, implying that we only had to turn up in South Africa and the trophy was as good as ours.

It’s true that football commentators tend to be annoying as a breed, much like radio DJs, but Tyldesley has a degree in exasperating viewers. ITV cannot help the fact that any night of football they broadcast is ruined by adverts, but they could surely do something about the shocking bias displayed by the commentators they employ. After you have endured another torrent of adverts (weren’t the last lot only five minutes ago?) advising you of the latest DFS sale and the like, you probably think that it couldn’t get any worse, only to hear the dreaded words, “Good evening and welcome from Clive Tyldesley”.

Oh great, another evening spent in the company of the rabid Manchester United fan. Some say that Clive has struggled for years, without any discernible success, to hide his United proclivities; while other believe that he makes no attempt to conceal his bias. Either way even The Who’s “deaf, dumb and blind kid” could not fail to notice his lack of partiality. In any match involving United, watch how he describes what their forwards are doing when United are attacking. Fair enough, but then look what happens when the opposition have the audacity to mount an attack: he explains what the United defenders are doing! It may be a trivial point, but it becomes grating after a while. When United misfit Diego Forlan demonstrated a total inability to find the back of the net, Clive stayed magnificently loyal to the misfiring forward, “Forlan has played in fifteen games now – and he’s nearly scored in all of them”. You have to ask why Manchester United bothered to launch their own television channel, MUTV, when Tyldesley was already doing such a marvellous job for the franchise.

"He needs to mention it. He always mentions it."

Of course, Tyldesley is well known for his inability to make it through 90 minutes without somehow managing to shoehorn in a reference to Manchester United’s Champions League victory over Bayern Munich in 1999 or, as he prefers, “that balmy night in Barcelona”. It was indeed an unforgettable night, but Clive is going to make damn sure that it will linger long in the memory, as he appears to be contractually bound to mention it every time he covers a European match. He’s really got it down to a fine art, often trotting out three or four completely irrelevant sentences before managing to crowbar in the inevitable mention of “two minutes of brilliance”. Other times, he’s less subtle: “And it’s an evening kick-off here, very much like it was that famous night at the Nou Camp”.

There are many things that you could say about this incredible comeback, but my guess is that Tyldesley owns the copyright for most of them, which is probably fair, given that he appears to make his living out of droning on about that final, while theoretically commentating on other matches. If that weren’t bad enough, Clive seems to be under the impression that his commentary was somehow responsible for United’s injury time larceny, “What’s this? Ninety minutes on the clock and Manchester United haven’t scored. They have to score. They always score … Sheringhaaaaammmmm!” The downside of this belief is that he starts rubbing the same rabbit’s foot every time United are up against it: “They need to score. United always score”.

The thought that not everyone in the country wants United to win has never entered his head. ITV Sport have long perpetuated the ridiculous notion that United are in some way England’s team. The underlying message behind Tyldesley’s nauseating tone on European nights is that those sitting at home should wrap themselves in red and white before willing on “our brave boys”, but what they have singularly failed to grasp is that the vast majority of the audience is actually desperate for United to lose. To be fair (note the switch into football-speak), Tyldesley is equally biased in favour of any English team playing against Johnny Foreigner, overlooking the possibility that some might just want to watch an entertaining game of football and not a re-enactment of ancient military battles.

Even when an English team is not involved, Clive will somehow link the match back to England or the Premier League. You might have mistakenly thought that the European Championship was intended to discover the best team in Europe, but for Clive it’s all about the players’ careers in England, otherwise he wouldn’t change everyone’s surname, e.g. Senderos of Arsenal, Tuncay of Middlesbrough, Cech of Chelsea, etc. In the worst example of his Anglophile tendencies, I swear that I once heard him refer to France as Arsenal.

"All you do to me is talk, talk"

He obviously saves his best efforts for United’s foreign legion, which I suppose I can understand in the case of Ronaldo, who (through gritted teeth) is one of the best players in the world, but it is unforgivable when the same treatment is applied to United squad member, Nani: “United fans will be pleased to know that Nani is warming up. Are we about to see a United combination for Portugal? Will Portugal now benefit from the fact that they have two United players on the park? Ronaldo and Nani must have developed an understanding together at United.”

Then there is Clive’s determination to ensure that the entire British population is made aware that Italy’s Simone Perrotta was born in Ashton-under-Lyne, which not only is “just ten miles from Old Trafford”, but also has the “Brucie Bonus” of being the birthplace of Geoff Hurst. That would be the same Geoff Hurst who scored the three goals … I think you know the rest. Broadcasters seem to think that nobody in England could possibly be interested in a World Cup or European Championship without some English reference points jammed into the commentary. They should understand that those watching matches not involving England tend to be the informed part of the football public, so they should stop insulting our intelligence. I am happy enough to watch France against the Czech Republic without ITV turning it into Arsenal vs. Chelsea (Gallas vs. Cech, right?)

If possible, the xenophobia is turned up a notch during those “special European nights at Anfield”. When Standard Liege tore into Liverpool during a Champions League match, Tyldesley’s patronising of the Belgian champions was relentless. As they continued to create chances, even missing a penalty, he couldn’t have sounded more astonished if Elvis had strolled on to the pitch to perform “Jailhouse Rock”. Similarly, when Liverpool played Inter, he could not help gloating that Inter had just one Italian in their starting line-up (“Can you believe that?"), neglecting to mention that Liverpool had only one more Englishman in their team.

The Norman Tebbit impression really comes into its own when Clive is confronted by a team from Eastern Europe. In a match featuring Latvia it wasn’t long before he started cracking gags about the Latvian surnames – absolutely hilarious those long foreign names, aren’t they? When England played Kazakhstan, it took even less time before a Borat quote was wheeled out, as Clive brazenly admitted that he had never heard of the Kazakh players – ever heard of research? His one-eyed stance even makes Motson look neutral.

"One for Clive"

While he’s always happy to belittle unknown players, he has a limitless capacity for sycophantic gushing towards the superstars of the game. Cristiano Ronaldo has always held a special place in Clive’s heart, his role in Manchester United turning him into some sort of honorary Englishman, rather than the gap-toothed, greasy foreigner that he would normally despise. Whenever Ronaldo touched the ball, it was “Oooooh, what’s he going to do now?” - before another miscued cross sailed into the crowd. When Manchester United met Chelsea, Clive fashioned a tortuous “Beauty and the Beast” analogy involving Predator look-alike Drogba and his heartthrob Ronaldo: “He’s looking very pert and perky”. For God’s sake, get a room. These days, the winker might be feeling a touch jealous, as Clive has started to bestow his grovelling affections on Steven Gerrard. In fact, if he gets any further up the Liverpool captain’s backside, the only thing he’ll be able to see is Alan Hansen’s feet.

Never mind, Clive can always return to his trusty Big Book of Clichés, so his greeting for the Champions League Final in Rome was, “We’re a few kilometers away from the Colosseum, but there’s something rather gladiatorial about this moment”. It’s as if his mouth has been hard-wired to the software that spews out tabloid headlines. Even the bookies picked up on this with Paddy Power taking bets (“Commentary Clichés”) on which blindingly obvious rubbish Tyldesley would utter, e.g. how long before he mentions his signature phrase (I think you know which one). When he goes off-piste, the results have a distinct whiff of Alan Partridge at his most idiotic, such as his description of the Dutch, orange masses descending on Basel: “It must have looked like a piece of toast. Covered. In Marmalade.” I kid you not.

Tyldesley has come a long way since the 1970 World Cup, when he got the half-time score of his first game wrong. He’s been plugging away for ages, including four years at the BBC, where he was assigned a grand total of four live matches. Even though he is now firmly established as ITV’s top commentator, he still has the air of a man scrambling to prove himself; hence his constant attempts to utter a memorable soundbite, his “They think it’s all over” moment, rather than just telling it straight.

"A great commentator - and Clive Tyldesley"

Maybe that’s why he makes so many needlessly melodramatic outbursts, constantly building up the dullest of games, asking histrionic, rhetorical questions like: “Oooh … look out …it couldn’t be … could it?” Celtic recently needed to score at least three times against Arsenal at The Emirates to qualify for the Champions League, which was extremely unlikely, but that did not stop Tyldesley faking a coronary every time they crossed the halfway line. When John Terry managed to control a simple ball before hoofing it away against Barcelona, Tyldesley could not believe his eyes: “Wow, Terry. Immense”. The premise is always the same: stick with us (“don’t you dare go away”) no matter how drab the game appears, as you might be rewarded with another comeback like “that magical night in Istanbul” (a.k.a. past ITV glories).

Tyldesley’s commentating style could be described as an uncomfortable mixture of pomposity and hysteria. Oozing gravitas, he just loves spouting his opinions as if they are proven fact. On occasions, he seems to believe that he is addressing the entire nation, “Good evening, everybody, and on a night like this it really is just about everybody”. Could we at least wait for the viewing figures? Nothing pleases Clive more than an opportunity to regale us with his encyclopaedic knowledge of the game, like the precise pronunciation of Juan Sebastian Veron. In fact, he’s way too pleased with himself throughout the match. It sounds like he’s rubbing his hands together with excitement about the great spectacle unfolding in front of him. Or masturbating. Or both.

And would it hurt Tyldesley to shut up now and then? He commentates as if he is still on radio and the audience is somehow deprived of the images that television usually provides as a matter of course. In full flow, he sounds like a man who has buttonholed a stranger on a bus, incessantly stating the obvious and firing off a barrage of widely known facts and meaningless statistics. When England played Andorra, Clive had duly looked up the country on Wikipedia and was thus well placed to relate its claim to the world’s longest life expectancy. I used to believe that this loquaciousness was because ITV’s commentators did not have access to much football, feeding off the scraps left by Sky, but it was much the same during the World Cup, when they were on pretty much every night. Somewhere in ITV Towers there must be a man with a warped sense of humour who once cruelly told Tyldesley that he was actually interesting.

"Give him the boot"

Lord knows why he loves the sound of his own voice so much, as it possesses an annoying, nasal quality that makes you wonder who first encouraged him to speak in public, let alone commentate. When he is excited (which is far too often), his voice goes off the scale, soaring to a shrillness probably only audible to dogs. Any big star is awarded special treatment, Tyldesley delivering the name in an ascending bark of surprised delight like a bulldog with laryngitis greeting his returning master at the same moment he steps into a bear-trap: “Rrrronal-DOHH!”

While Tyldesley is the first to dig out a referee for making an error, though sometimes only after he has had the benefit of slow-motion replays from several angles, he is not immune to the odd “Colemanballs” effort himself:

He is the man who has been brought on to replace Pavel Nedved - the irreplaceable Pavel Nedved.

He’s not George Best, but then again, no-one is.

He went through a non-existent gap.

One or two of their players aren’t getting any younger.

David O’Leary’s poker face betraying his emotions.

Maybe we shouldn’t be too harsh on Clive, as he now has to stay afloat without the benefit of the big, orange life jacket known as Ron Atkinson. Clive has been like Ernie without Eric, Little without Large, since Big Ron’s unscheduled departure. Their special brand of “humour” was typified after a player took a kick in the crown jewels and rolled around clutching them in agony:

Clive: I’m not sure where exactly he was injured there, Ron.

Ron: Just inside his own half I think, Clive.

Boom, tish! Actually given the nature of Big Ron’s fall from grace (a racist outburst against Marcel Desailly) that stripped the glamour from the double act, maybe a better comparison would be Andrew Ridgeley and George Michael (the undercover policeman’s friend). After “Champers” exited stage left, Clive had to make do with David Pleat, not only one of the most boring men in football, but a well-known kerb crawler (cautioned not once, but three times).

"Big Ron: Some of my best friends are black."

So, there we have it: Clive Tyldesley, a crap wannabe comedian (“Clive and Exclusive!”) who has never read the part of his job description that calls on him to display a small measure of impartiality from time to time. He tries far too hard to come across like your mate in the pub, when you just want him to tell you what’s happening in the game, which is surely the commentator’s role. Almost all football fans I know find him intensely irritating, as shown by this excellent on-line poll:

Should ITV sack Clive Tyldesley?

Yes - immediately.

Yes - and make him sit Stage 1 elocution exams.

Yes - and send him to the seventh level of hell wearing nothing but a Manchester United thong.

No - I am a moron who thinks Clive's commentary is accurate, dispassionate, and value adding.

Say no more – especially as Clive has said absolutely everything that needs to be said, then a little more.

Keep Singing Out

The BBC has greatly improved its coverage of music festivals, but for some reason has not yet worked out that nobody watching wants the music to be interrupted by intensely irritating hosts either telling us what we’ve just seen or informing us what they are about to broadcast. However, it is still worth enduring their inane conversation and cheesy grins, as now and again a new artist comes along and forces people to sit up and take notice. Such was the case with the Reading Festival two years ago when Get Cape Wear Cape Fly delivered a life changing set of fresh, vibrant songs.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly is not a band, just a young singer-songwriter of immense talent called Sam Duckworth. The somewhat cumbersome, but rather brilliant, name was taken from an article in a computer magazine. The name was deliberately eye-catching, combining the innocence and enthusiasm of youth with the probability of dashed dreams, but according to Duckworth was also “about breaking out of the preconceptions of the broken-hearted songwriter vibe”. With a moniker taken from a computer game, as you might expect, Duckworth is very much a modern social commentator, leading a charge against consumerism, racism and other injustices.

"Suits you, sir"

He certainly isn’t a songwriter that sticks to a standard formula and isn’t easy to pin down to one genre, as his music is an eclectic mix of folk, indie, emo and electronica – folktronica, if you will. He comes across like a modern day troubadour, armed with an acoustic guitar and a trusty laptop to provide the backing sounds. As homemade electronic beats pour out of his Mac, Duckworth furiously strums his guitar, successfully combining classical folk music with modern technology. His computer also provides added instrumentation of strings, keyboards and even a trumpet, helping to give each song a separate identity. It’s amazing how the addition of some subtle keyboards or a drum and bass breakbeat can turn a good composition into a great one.

The resulting songs are confident, even abrasive, as if he has a full band behind him. This might not be what you would expect from one man with an acoustic guitar, but it makes total sense once you realise that Duckworth’s roots lie in punk. For him, the influence of the punk scene is strong in terms of its social ethics, empowerment and attitude. The music might not have the punk sound, but it has the same “have a go” approach: “I don’t really know how the music happens. I just fumble around until it sounds good”. However he does it, the music is somehow mixed together in an original and refreshing way to produce something very special – an astonishing blend of the raw and the cooked.

"You say you want a revolution"

Fuelled by more than his fair share of teenage angst, his lyrics are largely heartfelt socio-political commentary, documenting the ills of ignorance, apathy and prejudice, which has resulted in the rather trite tag of “protest singer”. This caped crusader’s songs might not change the world, but he would “like to be remembered for making people aware that you can make a difference”. He is no old-fashioned folk polemicist, though Woody Guthrie’s famous guitar sticker, “This machine kills fascists”, would somehow be just as appropriate on Duckworth’s laptop. No, he is just as likely to write songs about being a reckless teenager, mixing intimate reflections with lighthearted humour.

Inevitably, comparisons have been made to 80s music legend, Billy Bragg, given they both play folk-influenced indie music and share a delight in articulate, passionate lyrics. Desperate to put wrongs right, they both still bring together the political and the personal. They have an Essex background in common, but their approach is more like a generic English brand of introspection - an everyman spirit with good intentions. Duckworth’s rasping vocals do have a very (southern) English sound that bears a passing resemblance to Bragg, but for me his voice is also a bit like the young Paul Weller. At times his intonation has the untrained, busker-like quality of Badly Drawn Boy, but that only adds to the overall appeal.

"Put your hands up for Southend"

Certainly, Get Cape’s debut album Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager contains enough social conscience to bring a smile to Bragg’s face, such as the anti-consumerism diatribe about the threat of globalisation in the eponymous track “Get Cape Wear Cape Fly”, which is hardly surprising coming from a Fairtrade supporter: “And you decide/If it's worth having their blood on your hands/Just to wear the latest Nikes/Open your eyes/As you don't need to buy it”. A similarly beguiling effort on the same theme is “Whitewash is Brainwash”, again rich in thought-provoking lyrics wrapped in a gentle melody, a rant about reality television and global corporations: “I went to Ikea today/It didn't change my life/Yet everyone in my street is going Scandinavian”. Duckworth rams the message home by shouting into a tiny megaphone (yes, I know, but trust me – it works). In “Call Me Ishmael”, he bemoans the soul-destroying, 9 to 5 existence of many tedious jobs, urging people to follow their dreams, perhaps inspired by the wandering sailor in Moby Dick: “You are not your job/And you are not the clothes you wear/You are the words that leave your mouth/So speak up, speak up loud”.

Having been racially attacked in a pub by a supporter of the BNP for the "crime" of being half-Burmese, Duckworth became an avid supporter of the Love Music Hate Racism campaign, writing “Glass Houses” about the experience: “You say/Go find yourself a new home/But isn’t it infantile/To consider yourself the judge/Of someone's rights/To start a better life today?” As he says, everyone in Britain is from immigrant blood at some stage, so prejudice is a ridiculous concept. The music on this track is particularly affecting with soft, almost African harmonies overlaying a tasteful piano intro before making way for shuffling beats and a rising chorus.

"I could build you a tower"

Much of this debut chronicles the last two years of Duckworth’s life when he gigged extensively around Britain, writing songs on buses and trains, getting drunk with new friends and crashing on their floors: “the whole feel of the album was songs I’d been playing on the road, songs I’d been writing on a laptop just trying to capture a moment and an energy”. One of the hardest working musicians around, Duckworth at least lived up to his stage name with his superhuman will to get to any show, which he refers to in “Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager”, partly with weariness, but ultimately with friendship in his heart: ”You made us feel at home/We broke our backs on floors of stone/And yet I'd rather wake there any day/Than wake up here alone”.

In a similar vein, Duckworth reveals what the past year has been like for him, “And in the last twelve months/I've felt like a stopgap/And a punch bag and a doormat/But I'm better than that”, though the depressing words are lightened by the sense of humour exhibited in the song title, “If I Had A Pound For Every Stale Song Title I'd Be Thirty Short Of Getting Out Of This Mess”.

"You can call them chronicles"

The highlight of the album and strident roof-raiser is the extraordinarily catchy, yet meaningful, “I-Spy”, which kicks off with an acoustic guitar riff and the plaintive line, “I spy with my little eye something that begins with I Don't Care”, before unfolding into something far more expansive and effervescent with the memorable chorus: “Face in the crowd/If you don't care/then why are you singing out?” It’s a song with a “simple tune”, but powerful lyrics and an aching vocal that are mightily effective.

The album moves into the overtly personal with the beautiful “War of the Worlds”, where Duckworth is not afraid to unveil his private emotions. This heartfelt, bitter lament about a broken relationship is ironically a real crowd-pleaser during Get Cape’s live show, “But we haven't spoke in days/Yeah, in fact it's been a matter of weeks/And so the next time that you need me, don't expect a call”.

However, unlike many records of teenage disaffection, the melodies on Chronicles are mostly upbeat and almost always infused with an electronic flourish that cheers the soul. The opening track “Once More with Feeling” is a particularly uplifting statement of intent and call to arms, “Don't let the people make you think/That just because you're young, you're useless”. The next track, the jazzy “An Oak Tree” strikes a similar positive note, “I guess another set back is/Just another lesson learnt”.

"Put your back into it"

Recorded mostly in his bedroom, it’s difficult to believe that such an accomplished album was self-produced without the benefit of a major studio, but Duckworth clearly possesses a maturity beyond his years, even though in many ways he’s your typical teenager. “Lighthouse Keeper” talks of an angry young man’s desire to escape from his Southend home (“Get out of this place!”), but at the same time admits that “it’s good to be home from time to time”.

Often wearing Clark Kent spectacles, Sam Duckworth is an unassuming hero for the iPod generation, but he is far more interesting than the average singer-songwriter (or teenager). His passion is infectious and only the deepest cynic could fail to be moved by his poignant, yet compelling songs. This astounding debut album doesn’t just fly – it soars.

Dante's Inferno

Major movie studios often seem to be labouring under the impression that a big budget equates to a quality film, but money does not always buy success and thankfully the opposite is sometimes true. One of the funniest American movies of the 90s, Clerks, is the proof that you can produce a great film with the most meagre of resources. Director Kevin Smith somehow funded the unbelievably low budget of $27,000 by selling his comic books collection, maxing out his credit cards and using part of the savings his parents had set aside for his college education.

Shot in grainy black and white, the resulting film is resolutely low budget, featuring shaky camera work, a few sound glitches and a cast of amateurish (first time) actors. Although the production is as raw as its language, making the movie on a shoestring only adds to the film’s desperate charm, as it spins its tale of twentysomething ennui in suburban New Jersey. Indeed, the movie was quickly picked up by infamous Miramax chief Harvey Weinstein, who overlooked the perceived handicap of the dodgy cinematic quality, because he recognised the vitality and humour in its dazzling script and uncompromising dialogue. Though Clerks is awfully rough around the edges, it is not difficult to see why the film has become a cult classic in the years since its release in 1994.

"Over the counter culture"

Clerks is an outrageous, foul-mouthed comedy about Dante and Randal, two potty-mouthed cashiers set in a New Jersey convenience store. While Quentin Tarantino has a famous background as a video store clerk who found his muse by watching all the videos there, Kevin Smith went one better by setting his directorial debut in the convenience store where he actually worked with the owner letting him shoot scenes after the shutters came down in the evening. As Smith has said, “I didn’t know what I was doing. I just had to get it made any way I could”. There is some irony in the fact that Smith strived so hard to make a film about slackers with absolutely no motivation. It is one thing to dream about making a movie of your life experiences, but quite another to follow that up with the perseverance (and talent) displayed by Smith.

The story is thin, basically a contrivance that allowed Smith to make use of his place of work as a setting, but it also allows him to showcase his dry wit and wonderful sense of the absurd. Although Smith himself under-played his efforts, “I’m not a very original or creative person. I just crib from my life”, Clerks did have something all of its own – a looseness and informality, epitomised by Smith’s profanely funny dialogue and primitive technique. It may well have been the world’s first warm-hearted bad taste comedy.

"Why's my company called View Askew?"

By Smith’s own admission, there’s hardly any plot, only a loose framework for a series of bizarre scenes, most of which just feature a couple of guys sitting around talking. Convenience store clerk Dante (Brian O’Halloran) and his best friend Randal (Jeff Anderson) don’t do anything terribly interesting, but that’s actually the point, as their lives are going nowhere – and they know it. All they are good at is putting the world to rights, while wasting their own potential, though it has to be said that their counter-culture diatribes are in turn screamingly funny and wincingly accurate – albeit not for those of a sensitive nature. Rather than do anything to escape their predicament on the wrong side of the till, these slackers prefer to chat about any subject that will keep them from dying of boredom, including the sexual escapades of Dante’s girlfriends, the merits of hermaphrodite porn, the infinite stupidity of their customers and the moral dilemmas inherent in the Star Wars trilogy.

"Empire" had the better ending. I mean, Luke gets his hand cut off, finds out Vader's his father, Han gets frozen and taken away by Boba Fett. It ends on such a down note. I mean, that's what life is, a series of down endings. All "Jedi" had was a bunch of Muppets.

These endless, rambling conversations amuse and offend in equal measure, but the palpable charm of the protagonists ultimately proves impossible to resist.

"36 ... no, 37"

Dante is an affable college dropout in his early twenties, working at the Quick Stop convenience store, his own inner circle of (job) hell. An under-achieving clever man, he wastes his time fretting about life, but he’s a friendly, accommodating guy, so he agrees to help his boss by filling in on his day off, only to set himself up for frequent customer abuse and relationship issues. He is shocked to discover his girlfriend’s taste (sorry) for fellatio after she admits that she has sucked “something like … 36” dicks, before correcting herself to 37, including Dante. That’s a hell of a way to end a relationship, "Hey, Veronica, try not to suck any dick on the way through the parking lot!" If you think that’s bad, spare a thought for his ex-girlfriend Caitlin, who has sex with a corpse in a darkened bathroom, mistakenly believing him to be Dante. The man had died earlier from a heart attack induced by an untimely masturbation session, if you’re wondering. Dante neatly summarises his day from hell, purgatory at the very least:

Dante: I'm stuck in this pit, working for less than slave wages. Working on my day off, the goddamn steel shutters are closed, I deal with every backward ass fuck on the planet. I smell like shoe polish. My ex-girlfriend is catatonic after fucking a dead guy. And my present girlfriend has sucked 36 dicks.

Randal: 37.

His travails are all the more bitter, because, as he keeps complaining, “I’m not even supposed to be here today!”

"Let me explain"

While Dante attempts to get through his unrewarding non-career with as much patience, politeness and dignity as he can muster, his friend Randal is openly abusive to his customers. Randal ostensibly works at the neighbouring video store, but he spends almost the entire day at the Quick Stop. He does whatever he feels like, even closing the video store where he works, so that he can rent movies from a better shop. Cynical and caustic, he’s the opposite of Dante, insulting and offending any potential renter, though he does have his own dark, nihilistic integrity and is protective of his pal, "In light of this lurid tale, I don't even see how you can romanticise your relationship with Caitlin. She broke your heart and inadvertently drove men to deviant lifestyles".

The two characters bicker non-stop, working off each other brilliantly, especially when dealing with the steady stream of mindless oddballs that dare to cross the threshold. Randal declares that “this job would be great if it wasn’t for the fucking customers”. Given that he has clients who ask questions like, “Do you have that one with that guy who was in that movie last year?”, his attitude is a bit more understandable. Anybody who has ever worked in a shop, which is almost everybody, will surely sympathise. However, the film does confirm the suspicions some older folk have about the young punks serving them – they really don’t like you. Even an innocuous customer is vulnerable to Randal’s biting sarcasm:

Customer: Cute cat. What's its name?

Randal: Annoying customer.

"I hate guys. I LOVE WOMEN!"

Outside the store, Jay and Silent Bob take up residence every morning. These bored, aimless losers form a "Geek" chorus that comically echoes the clerks’ plight. Jay (Jason Mewes) is a skinny drug dealer, who cannot stand still or be quiet for a moment, but spends his time spewing out a never-ending torrent of profanities. His partner in crime, Silent Bob, is almost the exact opposite: he hardly moves or speaks, maintaining the epitome of (fat) cool. This near-mute character is played by Kevin Smith himself, despite his renowned loquaciousness in real life, though he is allowed a couple of lines of wisdom, “You know, there’s a million fine-looking women in the world, dude. But they don’t all bring you lasagna at work. Most of ‘em just cheat on you”.

Chock-full of quotable dialogue, Clerks is an extremely funny film but it is very, very rude. Although it was released in the same year as Four Weddings and a Funeral, the humour is very different and this film is not for the easily offended. The comedy runs the whole spectrum from off-colour to truly tasteless, but its willingness to flaunt just about every cinematic taboo is one of the reasons why it’s such an unqualified success.

"Food fight!"

If there’s one moment which captures the outrageous humour of Clerks, it would be just after Dante and Randal have finished a highly detailed discussion of live sex shows, obviously offending a nearby customer. While Dante is apologetic, Randal responds by shoving a porno mag in the customer’s face, “Well, if you think that’s offensive, check this out!” Not far behind is the scene when Randal telephones the distributor to order around twenty porn videos with the most graphic titles, while a mother and young daughter stand nearby patiently waiting for their copy of “Happy Scrappy Hero Pup”. Clearly, this store has little in common with the gentle humour of Are You Being Served?, but what Clerks lacks in subtlety, it more than makes up for in laughs. It’s funny throughout and even clever in parts:

Veronica: You’re making a broad generalisation.

Dante: No, I’m making a generalisation about broads.

Crammed with witty social observations, movie references and spot-on asides, the brilliant dialogue is reminiscent of Tarantino, though Smith has a more natural feel for comedy. Dante and Randal can be charged with having strong opinions about things of no consequence, but these crude Jersey boys cannot be accused of a limited vocabulary or offering no insights among the insults. As Randal says to Dante, “That seems to be the leitmotif of your life, ever backing down”. On occasions, obscenity will even make way for some homespun philosophy:

Dante Hicks: You hate people!

Randal Graves: But I love gatherings. Isn't it ironic?

There’s also a warmth beneath all the profanity. Under his dour, hard-edged layer, Dante is basically a gentleman and an old-fashioned romantic. Even the nasty Randal is obviously devoted to his friend Dante, warning his ex-girlfriend, “Oh, hey Caitlin, break his heart again this time, and I'll kill ya. Nothing personal”.

"Find some balls!"

Cheap as chips, Clerks is the ultimate cinematic tribute to slackers and remains popular with disenfranchised youngsters (and shop workers) everywhere. Kevin Smith described it as a “vulgar, thinking man’s film”, but said that he did not intend it to make any cogent observations about society. Nevertheless, it’s clear that a theme about the world-weariness of today’s youth slipped in anyway. Even though a lot gets packed into one day, you still get the feeling that nothing is really going to change with these guys and they don’t have a clue what’s “in store” for them. On one level, it’s a hilarious comedy about everything and nothing, but it also looks at that awkward stage of your life when you have to make the best of a poor hand without knowing which cards will be dealt to you next.

Kevin Smith has typically under-played Clerks, “It was just dudes talking about sex and Star Wars”, but it launched him on a prolific film career, though this has been a mixture of the good (Chasing Amy, Mallrats), the bad (Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back) and the ugly (Jersey Girl). Dante and Randal’s laissez-faire approach to life is a reflection of his own lack of ambition; “I’m a dude who likes to set the bar real low. I like to put it on the floor and step over it. I like to have people regard me as the retarded kid who just learned to tie his shoes, That way people will always be pleasantly surprised”. With Clerks, we weren’t just surprised – we were astonished.