Lee Gale

The New Order frontman and one-time Joy Division guitarist Bernard Sumner loves the wine, weather and warm welcome of Chile

It was the finest England home kit to date but in South Africa, Rooney et al didn’t do it justice. So Umbro drafted in Peter Saville, design’s George Best, to bring back some swagger to a subdued squad.

A 2008 Aston Martin DBS V12 with Milan plates caterwauls along a tunnel that skirts Lake Garda followed by an eager duo of black Alfa Romeo 159s. The road is ludicrously busy but the rat-a-tat of a Heckler & Koch G36C assault rifle from one of the pursuing cars means that adhering to the Italian speed limit is not an option for the recognisable DBS driver. Even when a door disappears following a collision with a lorry, our hero remains fully focused on outrunning his adversaries.

Although Q’s gadgets were the envy of every red-blooded male, Ian Fleming’s novels reveal a more discerning James Bond. Lee Gale, archivist at GQ Branch, compiles a gadget dossier.

There are more daft DJ names than ever out there in clubland. But are they guarantees of a good time or surefire signifiers of the bedroom tryhards?

With multi-million pound heists back in fashion, it’s a sign of the times that our safety-conscious crooks are choosing Volvos as their getaway cars, a vehicle more closely associated with school runs and caravanning than villainry. You can’t help thinking that these latter day Ronnie Biggs have missed the point somewhat.

“Arrghh! Armed raiders steal masterpiece” it reads on the front page of The Mirror. The theft of The Scream from Oslo’s Edvard Munch Gallery is big news, but Interpol should look no further than the kitchen of John Gorman. On a sheet of A4 the former assistant manager of the England national side is reproducing his own version of the painting from the picture on the front of his newspaper – in fact, as we’re shown around his 15th-century cottage, we see that Gorman’s house is full of his artwork, from humorous caricatures of famous footballers to simple village vistas.

It’s a wonder of the modern age that you can arrive at the entrance of a major European music festival quicker than it takes to drive from London to Glastonbury (factoring in traffic jams, stop-offs to purchase roadside scrumpy in Domestos containers, etc). Having said ta-ta to the cat at midday, six hours later we’re in the Hungarian heat, onsite at the Sziget festival, sipping Budapest-brewed Dreher lager (£2 a pint) with a collection of multi-coloured wristbands.

If it weren’t for the Avro Lancaster, you might be reading the opening line to this story in German. It would start off, “Dank zur helligkeit von Ernst Heinkel und er seines He-111 mittelmäßiger bomber… and drift into a frightening, umlaut-rich diatribe of how superior German aircraft helped bring our nations together. Your attention would be broken as the front door of your hovel was kicked off its hinges, and your aged, ill grandfather dragged into the street for summary execution because he was no longer contributing satisfactorily to the German Empire. In fact, this magazine would probably be called Jackboot, or Ulrich. 

The inaugural Festival No.6 in North Wales mixes Sixties spy drama with the better elements of indie rock. Despite the rough red wine and absolutely miserable weather, it proves an outstanding, curiously British, cultural gathering