I haven't got round to the last two yet.

why is Lembit Opik in the picture?

You wait a week for a Word podcast and then two come along at once - fantastic!

...of Dylan based bollock-droppage broached at all?

john shuttleworth and 5th doctor, peter davison on interview duties. Were dave n mark worn out by the candyman?

Okay goddamnit, I've d/l the app.

... and it's only playing through the iTouch speaker, not over the cable into the Mac and hasn't shown up on any playlists. Sorry I know I'm being a pain in the hole technodimbulb Fraser.

Love your timing
Between this and the (excellent value) deluxe editions of Suede and Dog Man Star, which have just arrived in the post, I'm now planning a bit of a 'Suede night'.

Danny Baker salt of the earth, font of all knowledge, engaging, entertaining - Brett Anderson, disinterested unless talking about himself, no real interest in anything else, apart from himself, bit of a bore really. Sorry Andrew and Eamon you tried your best but you can't polish a turd.

I'd like to pay for the WordApp again because I enjoyed that so much.
Brett came across as a passionate musician, not stuffy, stuck up or up himself and very much into what he does. I happen to think what he does is great and he's a great front man for the last great Guitar Based English Rock Band. Our mileage obviously varies Chips, I'd feel the same if was a Radioheid or MSP bod. Can't stick either.

carefully and wandered back to the podcast to be met with weird slurping gobbling sounds, for a moment I thought Eamonn had let his fan boy crush on Brett get the better of him and it had all got a bit "Animal Nitrate".

ps. Fraser: so what was in your kinder?

Andrew and Eamonn: "Suede were great Brett, do you agree?"
Brett: "Yes."

..I disliked Suede rather intensely. I enjoyed listening to Brett Anderson and gave his music a re-listen on Spotify. Not bad. So much for preconceptions.

Any chance of trying to sway my notions of Morrissey?

Hey there folks. Excellent cast - thanks messrs Harrison, Forde, Anderson.

Great to hear Brett waxing large about days past. I remember seeing Suede at Bath Moles Club in 1992 shortly after Melody Maker had given them stonking rave on the cover. I turned up in fact sans ticket so thought I'd try an old rouse. Like many of us attendant on this forum I was pretty much stooped in the music press as a young lad, so I kind of knew the names and titles of the writers on all the inkies like the bottom of my own pencil case. After queuing at this gig for quite a while I came up to an appropriately imposing bouncer and stated, with all the conviction and derring do that youth affords "Yes, I'm on the guest list, I'm a journalist. The name? Steve Sutherland, Melody Maker".(I believe this was shortly before Mr Sutherland took the helm at the NME). And hey presto, like Ali Baba I was ushered in with not a qualm or query. A storming gig, by the way. Brett really took to the stage like one born to it. The staff even let me nab the huge "Drowners" poster adorning the wall of the gig.

Thanks for the memories Bath Moles - a genuinely great venue.

James

I enjoyed that a great deal. He came across really well and seems like a good chap. For a fan of the band that Royal Albert Hall show does sound a bit special...

"It's All Over Now" a Jagger/Richards song? shame on you :)

Surprisingly enjoyable that. But surely you've now the perfect opportunity to invite in Luke Haines to reminise about the under-achieving side of the pre-Britpop years and what it was like to be both better than Suede and totally eclipsed by them. He's got a new book to plug so I'm sure he'll be up for it. Please. Pretty please.

...is that Brett's voice seems to be morphing into a camper Harry H Corbett.

Yew dirteh old man

The Cadbury’s Cream Egg is the confectionary embodiment of Suede’s world of tawdry glamour. Not free range. Factory farmed in some urban sprawl. And readily available from dismal minimarts built into the foundations of high rise tower blocks. Graffitied metal shutters and mosquito alarms to deter loitering teens. Thuggish games of football that break out between teams of hard young men and their Pit bulls. Police cars on fire for goalposts.

We stand in the poison air, by the climbing frame, in our playground, which is Europe, and, more pointedly, a sink estate in Bracknell. The Chernobyl fallout floats down out of the nuclear sky, settling on our Cadbury’s Cream Eggs, turning their white and yellow innards a sooty black; the same colour that the faulty boilers turn the walls of our squalid flats and bedsits, where we sleep bare-arse naked, head resting on a pillow made from a Waitrose carrier bag stuffed with other carrier bags from Asda and Lidl. The Waitrose bag is a remainder of a woman who occasionally visits from a wealthy corner of the city and can afford expensive hand-made Cream Eggs, fashioned by chocolatiers from Switzerland.

At night in our squat we chase the dragon on the crumpled foil wrapping of our Cadbury’s Cream Eggs and dance to the throb of a distant motorway. Our trousers barely climb our arse cheeks. We flagellate our bony, half-clad backsides, vigorously pummelling the buttocks with rolled up copies of OK! Magazine, in time to the monotonous beat of the traffic.

A 43 year old man who says "y' know" and "kind o' like" more than my teenage daughter. What an achievement.