They’ve only flippin’ well gone and done it. Yes really. The impossible has in fact come to pass.

With “Resistance” Muse have not only equalled, but surpassed their 2006 masterpiece record “Black Holes and Revelations” which for me is the best record by anybody this decade.

How have they done it? They ought to be a band that would say about themselves; “Pretentious? Nous?” with all their orchestral, anthemic arrangements and the politically motivated lyrics preaching lefty revolution in the most starkly naive terms.

The song title “Exogenesis Symphony Part 1 (Overture)”  on any album sleeve would evoke the cringe factor extraordinaire with it’s nod to the worst excesses of ’Seventies Prog Rock, but with Muse it doesn’t matter a jot. They just create their own music and you can join in if you want. And I do want thanks ever so much.

I think that Muse mean it. You can feel it in the live shows that they connect with the audience because they really believe

Rise up and take the power back,
It's time the fat cats had a heart attack,
You know that their time's coming to an end,
We have to unify and watch our flag ascend

They will not force us,
They will stop degrading us,
They can not control us,
We will be victorious

in the same way that I still do at the age of 41. Sad? Oh yes. Cynical? Never. It’s the easy, lazy option.

Like U2 before them Muse will become a self parody before long but whilst they produce records as stupendously challenging and beautiful as this one then they remain the standard bearers for a tradition that goes back via the Manic Street Preachers, early U2, and The Clash to the daddy of visceral meaningful rock, Lou Reed.

But best of all no one is doing what Muse do which is to take all sorts of weird and wonderful influences from Sans Saens to Metallica and see what happens. The only speck of doubt comes with “United States of Eurasia” which ends up sounding like a weak Queen Tribute band.

The live show at Teignmouth which is on YouTube gives about 10% of the flavour of a Muse gig which is a testament to just how good they really are.

A prisoner is coming to the end of a three and a half year sentence. He has laid the foundations to turn his life around. He has learnt that it feels good to help others. He enjoys the status he has in the group and the younger cons look up to him. I have observed him giving quiet encouragement to a fellow inmate during a training course. I do not intervene. He handles it well. I praise him in front of the group as this particular meeting will be his last. He looks chuffed as he receives applause from his peers, us and the officer.

He is clean. He is sober. He is apprehensive but the system has provided him with bail accommodation, intensive contact for the first week of his release. His fears result from poor coping strategies resulting from a life in care and then prison. But he is looking forward to giving in a lash “on the out” anyway.

The following day he is making his way to collect his breakfast when the Wing Officer pulls him aside to inform him that to get sorted out as he will be leaving today because the jail is at capacity.

He is given the address of a B and B. There is no room at the hostel for ten days. There is no one available to support him except for a cursory check. There will be no mentoring or counselling. He is on his own. The gate staff feel so bad that they have a whip round.

I am sitting in the Bus Station. He comes up to me. He is excited to see me. And Cled whom he has never met but holds legendary status in the group. But he is very drunk and holding a carrier full of Special Brew. His excitement quickly turns to shame as he relates to me the events of the last few days. He is staying with “friends”. The people who he was desperate to escape. I ask the question and yes, he is using. I tell him to ring the centre. We are here for him. I know he never will as I watch him leap onto a bus in a manner which causes a shimmer of disgust to ripple down the queue.

A bitter memory comes to me. That of the boy sitting in Belfast Central Station in February 1987 feeling completely and desolately alone. My phone beeps jolting me out of my reverie. It’s our kid. A question about sport. I look at the book in my hand. I reflect on the joyous nature of the new Muse record and how art and literature are my coping mechanisms. I look forward to picking my son up from school and going home to a loving environment. All of these things mean that that boy in Belfast was never truly alone, never really left with no support or safety net.

Not like him.

A flick of a bureaucrats pen. That’s all it took to wreck any sliver of hope.

An alien spacecraft becomes stricken over 1980’s Jo’berg and  20 years after being rounded up and placed in the slum that is District 9, geeky bureaucrat Wikius Van der Merwe is charged with moving the extra terrestrials to a new camp far away from human contact.

The South African writers produce an opening that cleverly satirises the dynamics of Apartheid as the “prawns” face the daily humiliations of township life complete with exploitation and being subject to random privations based on the whims of their human neighbours. The parallels with Gaza and the West Bank are clear to see, but the film avoids being obvious or preachy and the documentary style does little to prepare the viewer for the welcome twists and turns to follow.

The pace and plot of the picture build masterfully and it is far from the film that you expect to see from the first half hour or so, and the the action sequences in the later half of the film deliver a powerful denouement.

Wikius is a superb hero. Ordinariness personified, the Civil Servant is required to deliver eviction notices on behalf of a huge multi national company acting on the orders of the UN, but like all private contractors operating in war zones morality is far from being top of the agenda and when our hero stumbles across some liquid with enormous commercial possibilities, both military and otherwise, the pretence of acting in the common interest goes out of the window and Wikius is forced to run for his life. 

Peter Jackson has overseen a gem of a picture which showcases the best themes of Sci Fi movies, those of politics and existential morality. The story leaves a possibility for a District 10. Lets hope so.

I was very impressed with Sharlto Copley as Wikius and it seems almost unbelievable that this was the 35 year olds first role having previously worked almost  exclusively on the other side of the camera. The choice to improvise the main eviction scene showcased what a fine actor, and one with a big future, Copley really is. He is due to play opposite Liam Neeson in, get this, a re make of The A Team. I kid you not. According to Wikipedia that is…..

As for Dorian Gray…. Ho hum. Lets face it you’d be hard pressed to muck up such a great story, that of Faustian themes adapted by the genius that was Oscar Wilde and the producers don’t mess it up. But there is no X factor to raise the picture into the very good rather than not bad stakes. Treading water. Adequate. Damning with faint praise? Absolutely.

But then I am totally mad about Wilde as my Mum, who is wholly responsible for my love of literature fed me his work from as an early age as I can remember starting with the magnificent children's story The Selfish Giant and his vulnerability and amazing insight into the human soul has always inspired me, so I suppose I was a tough audience. And as it happens the only audience at this viewing.

Fact: 0.5% of UK children are in care and all the heartache that  lead up to, and follow from this desperate situation must be more than anyone could or should take.

Fact: 27% of the prison population, well over a quarter, have been in care.

Therefore it’s not science of the rocket variety that in order to reduce crime, save money and give the general population more peace of mind, the Government should be taking affirmative  action to work with these young people who desperately need the skills of teamwork, cooperation, recognition that they have something to offer and most importantly that there are people out there who actually care what happens to them, and want them to have successful and happy lives.

It’s a moral duty and pragmatic all at the same time, and I for one and immensely proud that Alan Johnson backed our City to deliver on this issue when he provided funds and expertise to back the PCT when they bought a yacht and enlisted non other than Sir Robin Knox- Johnson to help design and deliver a programme for our vulnerable young people to bring them back into the fold.

The first intake of fourteen youngsters scored a 100% success rate as they all are now in work, education or training six months on.

Four cohorts per year equates to 56 young people who will hopefully go on to lead productive lives, contributing to Society and paying tax.

Everyone a winner, surely?

But not if you are a Tory.

Due to a default mechanism in the brain which hears the Daily Mail buzz words “crime”, “young people”, “Northern” and “Working Class” David Cameron came out with the following corker;

"Recently the NHS brought a yacht to train Hull teenagers  and moored it in a Hull marina," he said, adding he thought it was a "completely crazy decision".

"If this extravagance had been published for all to see, the people who made this decision would either have had to justify it or scrap it."

You can just hear the withering contempt in his voice.

But then again the Tories want to spend £2 BILLION of tax payers money on just 3,000 of the richest families if they get in, so I suppose we shouldn’t be that surprised. 

The curtain fell on a very disappointing season for  Hull FC with a defeat that displayed in microcosm what ails the Airlie Birds at the moment.

We started at a gallop. The intensity was high and when the mercurial Tom Briscoe fielded a difficult ball on the right wing and crashed over the line, it was no more than the hosts deserved.

Then the ref. caused us to lose two tries, the heads went down, we couldn’t seem to recycle the ball quickly enough, and despite a late rally Bradford went home with the two points.

Bradford drew level after Mr. Silverwood called a very harsh obstruction against the defence some 15 yards in front of the sticks. The Bulls produced a strong set and completed it with a clever move for the try.

These decisions even themselves out over the campaign. So we are told. Well I for one beg to differ as Mr. Silverwood and his officials missed a blatant forward pass, so obvious even a RFU ref would have pulled play up, and Bradford scored a killer try right on the half time hooter. We we furious. Absolutely livid. What can you do when so may mistakes go against you?

But instead of blasting back, FC became lethargic and lacking in any direction, Bradford sensed their chances and took them.

Despite such an awful season the fans turned out in force, cheered the team on, sung their hearts out and there was not one sign of recriminations or negativity towards the players or the staff, amazing given the inertia and drift abroad at the Club.

I will await the contract announcements on Monday before making any judgements about where we go from here, but believe me when I say a mass clearout of under achievers, passengers, deadwood and downright shit stirrers is a must.

Hull FC should be a top four Club year in, year out and the loyalty and good humour of our fans deserve better from the hierarchy of the Club who set the tone for what goes on in the dressing room and on the park.

Finally I want a return to Sunday games with the odd Friday night thrown in for variety, or the needs of Sky.

Hull FC: Tansey, Briscoe, Whiting, Hall, Raynor, R. Horne, Washbrook, Dowes, Houghton, Cordoba, Tickle, Manu, Radford. Replacements: King, G. Horne, Moa, Lauaki.

There are certain directors with whom the critics seem to lose all sense of reason. Guy Ritchie being a prime example. Revolver was roundly panned but I found it richly intriguing, but my old mate Peter Bradshaw of the Guardian took the biscuit with his “review” of Rockandrolla where he attempted to show us how wonderfully whimsical and ironic he was without actually coming remotely near to  doing his job such is his loathing of Ritchie.

Quentin Tarentino is a similar case in point and I reached for the off switch when I heard Mark Kermode about to muse on Radio Five Live about the American’s latest offering, the oddly monikored Inglorious Basterds.

From Reservoir Dogs through to Death Proof, Tarentino has been forced to run the gauntlet of the liberal elite with their barely credible charges of misogynism and torture porn. From the frothing outrage of the Daily Mail to the sniffing of the Guardianistas, Tarantino has has managed to upset most of the media which alone makes him a great film maker in my book.

Frippery aside I happen to rate Quentin Tarentino as a truly original director who always makes challenging and thought provoking films. The only one I didn’t like was Jackie Brown and there is no coincidence that it was one of his more anodyne efforts as Tarentino is at his best when he stretches cinema convention to near breaking point.

Inglorious Basterds does this job by twisting fantasy and reality in a World War Two setting as we are party to the exploits of a crack Jewish American Special Forces unit who are parachuted into Nazi Occupied  Europe with the express instruction of killing as many German leaders as possible. There are embellishments, as you would expect to the killing, putting no doubt in the mind as to why this is an 18 cert film but it’s in context no matter what the torture porn brigade have to say.

The plot thickens when the crew get mixed up in a plot to assassinate the whole of the Nazi leadership in cahoots with a British agent superbly played by a hammy Michael Fassbender, but the main acting plaudits go to Christoph Waltz as a Jew hunting SS man. The opening chapter is completely out of the comic context of the rest of the film as this Officer gently interrogates a French farmer but there is a chilling denouement to the scene.

Brad Pitt’s performance was infuriating as to my mind he wasted a great opportunity to deliver an OTT comic role akin to his performance in Snatch. His character has many facets and it just seemed to me that Pitt was just going through the motions.

Someone asked me what category this film would come under, and that’s the genius of Quentin Tarantino as the answer is usually “I have no idea”.