Cole Morgan

What is it about the paintings of Cole Morgan that captivate me? Ever since I saw his work at a show in Amsterdam a couple of years ago, I've been intrigued by his images. At the time I met him he was working with burning barns and other buildings and pencilled number sequences revealed from under scratched-off paint. Marvelous. No idea what he means by any of it, but then he invites you to visit his trail of grey asylums, Felliniesque fairs, and the twitching of number lists as they feverishly recombine to fix a place, time, thought, option. Morgan gives nothing away. His cypher is his alone. You? You're on your own mate.

If there ever was a purely aural equivalent of his work, it might be those odd "number stations" that broadcast endless strings of numbers supposedly used by intelligence agencies to convey messages - one notable source pumps out five-number strings in a digitized voice then rings out rounds of the English folk-song, "The Lincolnshire Poacher," triangularized to pinpoint an RAF base on the island of Crete. Odd darling, very odd.

http://speechificationaudio.s3.amazonaws.com/BBC_R4_Tracking_the_Lincolnshire_Poacher_24112006.mp3

England at Melbourne, Ashes Test IV

After three matches brimming with talent and testosterone and having scythed their way though the Australian batting order in Adelaide, England collapsed ignominiously against a modest swing-bowling set of "quickies" in Perth, momentarily bringing the Ashes Test to equilibrium. Suggest we move on quickly and sew this bugger up with a win.

... and of course we did. In Sydney. Resulting in 3 test victories on Aussie soil in one Series for the first time since 1928, or thereabouts. Records dropping like cheerleaders' knickers.

So c'mon Barmy Army - a huge hurrah before propelling us breezily toward the drinking dens of Sidney.