Henry’s juggling sparks plenty of debate...

Thierry Henry’s bit of juggling last week certainly sparked plenty of debate. The Irish, poor souls, are in uproar, the French are as embarrassed as they are relieved, and everyone else seems to be chipping in with their opinion. I find it interesting that morality, in this instance, seems largely to depend on which team your sympathy lies with.

Had Robbie Keane handled the ball to give Ireland the win, would there have been such a fuss, or would we merely have labelled him ‘cheeky’? Rather than focusing on this one indiscretion, we’d more likely have hailed Ireland for being wily enough to squeeze past France.

As a Brighton supporter, I can recall a couple of instances when my team were guilty of some rule-breaking. I have a vague memory of full-back Johnny Crumplin slapping the ball in with his palm at Cambridge one time. Everyone, including Crumplin, looked at the ref and waited for a free-kick and a yellow card, but, amazingly, a goal was awarded. At Withdean, striker Gary Hart punched one in with his fist in the last minute against Southend. Did you find Brighton fans suggesting the game should be replayed? No, they laughed all the way home, delighted with the three points.

Calls from the Irish Football Association for the France game to be replayed were frankly ridiculous and possibly the greatest ever example of clutching at straws. If a game were to be replayed every time a ref missed a key decision, teams would end up playing every day of the week. Every time Manchester United lost, Sir Alex would be straight on the phone to the FA demanding the match be voided because the linesman got a throw-in decision wrong in the first half.

In his distinctive, brilliantly angry way, Roy Keane put it best during a press conference. “France are going to the world cup. Get over it,” he shrugged. Okay, maybe he was a bit harsh, but he made a good point about how, earlier in the campaign, Ireland won a game which saw them score from a dodgy penalty, and there were no offers to replay that game.

People are labelling Henry a cheat, but he is no more a cheat than any winger who dives or any centre-half who grabs a handful of a striker’s shirt. It was an instinctive reaction to use his hand, and people who say he ought to have owned up should put themselves in his boots, in a game of such importance (remembering that this world cup might be his last) and ask themselves whether, honestly, they would have told the ref to disallow the goal. I’m not sure I would.

Regardless of this incident, I’ll always think of Henry as one of the greatest players I’ve ever had the privilege of watching. He transforms football into an art form, and outraged moralists should forgive him this one blemish and instead focus on the sheer beauty he has brought to the game. After all, even though Diego Maradona ruined my summer in 1986, I still regard him as the greatest footballer that has ever lived.

We all know that instant TV replays are a good idea but until they come in, we just have to accept that sometimes, no matter how heartbreaking it can be, you’re going to be stitched up by bad officiating or plain bad luck.

Julian Casablancas - Phrazes For The Young

With no new output forthcoming from The Strokes yet, fans are having to settle for the numerous side-projects, the most anticipated of which is surely the debut solo offering from frontman and creative driving-force, Julian Casablancas.

Opening song, Out of the Blue, illustrates a dichotomy that occurs throughout the record, as cynical lyrics disguise what is actually a musically celebratory and largely radio-friendly album. “Somewhere along the way, my hopefulness turned to sadness/ Somewhere along the way, my sadness turned to bitterness,” Casablancas grumbles in his deliciously languid slur. But, just when the tone seems to have been set, he leaps into a rousing, joyous chorus. Phrazes… often references the 80s. The synth-drenched Left & Right in the Dark even threatens to burst into Ultravox’s Dancing With Tears in My Eyes before reigning itself in and ending like something from Is This It.

With eight tracks totalling 40 minutes, the album could have done with some fat-trimming, and one senses there may have been a handful of three-minute pop classics here had Casablancas shown more self-discipline. This is a minor quibble though, and there are enough surprising left-turns to keep things interesting, like the laid-back soul of 4 Chords of the Apocalypse and the country influenced Ludlow St.

While such departures validate Casablancas’ side-project as worthwhile and necessary, the songs that fall closer to that distinctive Strokes sound are actually the highlights. So, no matter how good Phrazes For The Young might be - and it is good - it ultimately leaves the listener longing for a new Strokes album. Still, as a stopgap, this’ll do nicely.

Vote For Owl and the Grapes!

Firstly, the bad news: Bobbysix.com has not been nominated for an Australian Fashion Award. Surprising I know. However, the magnificent Owl and the Grapes has been nominated as Best Australian Fashion Blog! So please take 2 seconds out of your day to vote. Go here, click on the Best Fashion Blog category and vote for Owl and the Grapes! Voting is open 'till 20th December. Thanks!

Bad Lieutenant - Never Cry Another Tear

Having offered some pretty unremarkable non-New Order projects in the past, Bernard Sumner is back to have another stab at things without Peter Hook, now that New Order have split for surely the last time.

Aside from the lack of Hooky’s basslines, Never Cry… inevitably sounds a bit like New Order, but offers more straightforward guitar rock and debuts new vocalist Jake Evans, who shares lead duties with Sumner. Sadly, the newcomer’s voice is a painfully dull, generic Northern England Soul karaoke affair which is reminiscent of Embrace or, horror of horrors, The Seahorses. At its best, it’s Noel Gallagher on a bad day. Thankfully, Sumner’s vocal, as always, is great. It’s hard to pinpoint what makes it so special. Maybe it’s the way he manages to sound effortless, remote yet slightly strained all at once, while injecting tiny fragments of emotion. Regardless, his iconic voice is one of the few shining lights here. Lyrics are occasionally a problem though. Sumner has never been an especially challenging lyricist, and, while in the past there was a certain charm to the simplicity of his words, here his wordplay comes across as clichéd and lazy. This Is Home, for instance, boasts gems like: “Gonna take you higher than a bird can fly/Girl I’m so in love with you/Don’t even think that it is true.”

Some songs here are better than latter day New Order, but that’s not saying much. Never Cry… is not a terrible record, but it is pedestrian and uninspired and it feels like Sumner could have churned this out in his sleep.

Cuthbert and the Night Walkers - Mr Pickwick's Camera

Sydney seven-piece Cuthbert and the Night Walkers come bounding along armed with trumpets, cowbells and goodness knows what else for their second album of effervescent, plinky-plonky indie. Strangely though, for a band whose live shows are all fun, movement and noise - like a scaled down Polyphonic Spree - the gentler songs are actually the album’s highlights. Walk to Work is stripped-back and beautiful, as lead-singer Richie Cuthbert tells a downbeat love story over sparse piano and, later, pretty melodica. Similarly, album-closer Negatives is sorrowful and touching. “I can’t bring myself to kiss you goodnight in front of your friends,” Cuthbert sings. He may not be the most natural vocalist in the world - at times he is a little whiny - but his voice is certainly varied and the way he jabs at words in some of the more upbeat songs is kinda jaunty. Consistently adorable though, are the female backing vocals, which are as arresting and delicious as those of The Magic Numbers, and there are some great boy/girl duets, like the Spanish-tinged and theatrical Wonderland.

The inclusion of the album’s more sombre tracks reigns things in from becoming overtly kooky and act to counterbalance the likes of High Horse, which treads a precarious path between being catchy and quite annoying. However, for the most part the hectic multi-instrumentalism and harmonies are great. Importantly, Cuthbert and The Night Walkers’ quirkiness always comes across as perfectly natural, and not in the slightest bit contrived, which is why this band is so very likeable.

Bridezilla - The First Dance

Bridezilla first started to provoke excitement on the live scene over three years ago as a bunch of precociously talented school kids whose stage presence and mastery of their instruments was already mesmerising. Now, a little older (although still frighteningly young) and with a recent American tour under their belts, they follow up 2007’s EP with a debut full-length offering.

One of the appealing things about Bridezilla is that, despite many reference points, it is impossible to satisfactorily define their music. They dip in and out of jazz, folk, classical, and pop and have a love of Pavement, The Velvet Underground and Nancy Sinatra but their sound is entirely their own. Slithers of fragile light juxtapose powerful darkness in their thoughtfully-crafted arrangements, as violin, saxophone, guitar, drums and Holiday Carmen-Sparks’ nuanced vocal weave in and out of each other.

Heart You Hold is a perfect microcosm of Bridezilla’s sound, with brooding undertones and a measured build-up making way for a frenzied crescendo of duelling violin and sax. Similarly, White Feather starts dreamily, then takes a sinister turn with Carmen-Sparks ordering: “Fire, fire, fire/shoot to kill,” before the song climaxes in a thrilling cacophony of guitars and drums. Showing a different, more restrained dimension - which is apparent throughout the record - lead single Beaches woos the ears and Queen of Hearts has a really pretty melody.

The First Dance is an album of intelligence, depth and genuine beauty, and Bridezilla’s ability to create intriguing and unique music to this high standard at such a tender age suggests that they have the wherewithal to go on to be one of Australia’s most cherished musical exports.

Another case of footballers making the news for the wrong reason

So, recently, English Premier League footballer Marlon King went and got himself banged up for 18-months for a sex assault. It's not the first time he has been in trouble with the law either.

This is yet another, albeit more extreme than usual, example of the kind of story that crops up every now and again in the newspapers, as footballers seem to be as much on the front pages for being involved either as the perpetrator or the victim of a fracas in the early hours as they are on the back pages for scoring goals.

Even though he intends to appeal, King is clearly a troubled person, but, when considering some of the slightly more trivial cases, I suppose it must be hard to go out on the town if you’re a footballer. I’ve had the occasional night out with groups of players and, sure, it’s nice to walk straight to the front of the queue and to be looked after by proprietors, but there are downsides too. There are inevitably supporters who want to sing your name or bend your ear about tactics when all you want to do is hang out with your mates, and then there are the opposition fans who, fuelled by too much booze, want to tell you exactly what they think of you. And if you’re Stephen Gerrard, a bit of a row about the music in a club ends up with you appearing in court.

I suppose the simple solution is that if footballers don’t want unwelcome attention, they shouldn’t go to places where they are most likely to get it. Harry Redknapp even went so far as to ban his Tottenham players from nightclubs after another King, this time Ledley, ended up in the local police station after a few too many. “I don't want players going out to nightclubs, getting drunk and misbehaving,” Redknapp said. “If you look at the problems, they nearly all come when people get drunk. I don't understand it; they're so well paid, so well looked after.” I think Redknapp echoed the opinions of millions of hard-working football fans with that vox-pop. Oh, and, incidentally, the alleged quote from Ledley King when he found himself dishevelled in a police station in the early hours of the morning was: "Boss man, boss man, I don't deserve to be here - I'm rich." Classic.

Footballers are young and vivacious, so telling them not to go clubbing is futile, but it does seem to be a very British thing to drink your bodyweight after a game. I remember hearing a story about an Arsenal party where the English players were throwing booze down their necks while the foreign stars like Henry sat in the corner nursing their orange juices and wondering why their team mates were abusing their bodies so badly. It’s not often you see hammered overseas players being snapped by the paps as they stagger out of nightclubs having just been involved in a dust up. Can you imagine Tierry Henry downing pints or doing shots of tequila in a dentist chair?

Of course, it’s none of our business how and where players unwind but, if having to miss out on going to a few of the rowdier clubs in town is the price they pay for all the other rewards being a footballer brings, then it doesn’t seem like a bad deal to me.

And, as far as Marlon King goes, the depressing thing is that another club will snap him up with no questions asked when he gets out. Okay, if he does his time then he is perfectly entitled to get back to playing football, but it just seems unfair that the likes of him and Joey Barton, yes, this Joey Barton, the one who is always in trouble, can live the wonderful lives of footballers and bank the pay-cheques.