V 2006 (10 October 2006)
We drank quite a lot of cider and enjoyed some great music - James Dean Bradfield, Beck and Radiohead stick out.
On the first day it rained quite a lot and we had to pay £10 to find out who was playing where and then queue in the drizzle for 40 minutes for beer tokens. It also turned out that Rhys, who I had planned to meet near the second stage, was actually to be found by the second stage at the Chelmsford site rather than the one in Staffordshire where I was patiently waiting. But after that unpromising start, things got markedly better after JDB appeared on stage, looked down on the small damp crowd that had assembled to watch him and said, "You poor soaked bastards". It made a nice change from the Artful Dodger posturings of Richard Archer off Hard-Fi, who strutted around the stage like a Thunderbirds puppet, exclaiming, "We're 'ard-Fi from West Lahndahn" (no, you're from Staines in Surrey), before telling us that we weren't going to let the rain get us down. Speak for yourself mate, you're not stood out here watching a bunch of twats ponce around on a covered stage before heading into the VIP area towards heat and towels and queue-free bars and groupies and drugs.
On the first day it rained quite a lot and we had to pay £10 to find out who was playing where and then queue in the drizzle for 40 minutes for beer tokens. It also turned out that Rhys, who I had planned to meet near the second stage, was actually to be found by the second stage at the Chelmsford site rather than the one in Staffordshire where I was patiently waiting. But after that unpromising start, things got markedly better after JDB appeared on stage, looked down on the small damp crowd that had assembled to watch him and said, "You poor soaked bastards". It made a nice change from the Artful Dodger posturings of Richard Archer off Hard-Fi, who strutted around the stage like a Thunderbirds puppet, exclaiming, "We're 'ard-Fi from West Lahndahn" (no, you're from Staines in Surrey), before telling us that we weren't going to let the rain get us down. Speak for yourself mate, you're not stood out here watching a bunch of twats ponce around on a covered stage before heading into the VIP area towards heat and towels and queue-free bars and groupies and drugs.
The "I've peaked and I'm kidding myself" party (2 October 2006)
Hi. I'm, uh, I'm a pet psychiatrist. I sell couch insurance. Mm-hmm, and I, and I test-market positive thinking. I lead a weekend men's group, we specialise in ritual killings. Yeah, you look great! God, yeah! Hi, how are you? Hi, how are you?
Ten years! Ten short, blink and you'll miss 'em years. There was a five year school reunion. That was five years ago. Not five minutes, which is what it seems like. So, on Saturday, in a dark room above a very sloaney pub on the King's Road, we all circled each other politely, discussing nothing in particular except maybe how quickly a decade has passed and how weird that girl's hair now looks. It wasn't really as if everybody had swelled. There were a few larger waistlines, a few balder heads. There were people who said, "Hello Rob," who I swear I had never laid eyes on before. There was someone who greeted me with, "Hello Alex". There were lots of lawyers and accountants. It was vaguely entertaining. But I wasn't expecting to be vaguely entertained. I was expecting shakabuku. Unfortunately, I'm no Martin Blank.
Once, when filling out an application form, I was faced with the slightly unusual question, "If you could be any character from a film, who would you be and why?" I wrote:
Martin Blank, from Grosse Pointe Blank. He carries out his work quickly and efficiently, and, although undertaking his tasks individually, he recognises the need to work alongside others at times and the value of good support staff. He also dresses very well.
Given that this was an application to a law firm, the answer was ill-judged (actually the whole application process was ill-judged but I don't want to dwell on that). Martin Blank kills people for a living. He also has obsessive tendencies and is heavily reliant on his therapist, despite having been fired as a patient. I didn't get the job.
Unlike Blank, the ten year reunion did not drive me to an existential crisis point (it's arguable that I've been there for at least three years). I did not stare deeply into a baby's eyes and realise that my work is inhumane and meaningless (again...past three years). I had no swift, spiritual kick to the head that altered my reality forever. I chatted, drank, went to sleep, woke up with a hangover and stayed in bed until 2:30pm on Sunday. Ironed a few shirts. Had a curry. Went to sleep again. No shakabuku. If the 10 year reunion didn't bring it on, what will? When do I get my shakabuku? I was just trying to get a little validation for my life. I guess I came up a bit short!
Living Opposite Celebs (3 January 2006)
I was planning to break my lengthy silence with a riveting travelogue, told with the kind of witty self-deprecation that would make Michael Palin and Clive James give up and go home without so much as an ironic gurn at the camera. Unfortunately, that's proved difficult. Two reasons: for a start, instead of effortlessly conjuring up tales to rival those of Patrick Leigh-Fermor, over the "festive period" I remained slumped in an armchair eating Stilton and trying to work out which televised fragrance advertisement was the most pretentious. Secondly, "witty self-deprecation" and doing anything "effortlessly" do not come naturally (is that tautologous?). Oh, and my laptop's fucked, but that's another story.
So as the perfume ads give way for chirpy chav-friendly invitations to furniture warehouse sales, I'm back at work. No time to do my foreign adventures justice. But just enough time to comment on the spooky goings on in my neighbourhood.
Macrobiotic drudge Chris Martin and his marginally more interesting wife, Gwyneth Paltrow, have decided that their house is full of bad energy. Apparently, this is to blame for Gwyneth's difficult second pregnancy (I suspect it's more to do with eating seeds and drinking fucking Yakult all the time). The rumours are that they're getting some followers of Kabbalah in to do some chanting and scare away the ghosts.
I happen to live opposite the Paltrow-Martins. The only bad energy I've sensed in the area is the bloody prices charged by the gas supplier. OK, so standing staring at their house for hours on end, tapping gently on their windows and flinging excrement into their front yard in the middle of the night isn't the kind of thing that's going convince Mr and Mrs P-M that the neighbourhood is bubbling with good energy. And perhaps it was wrong to repeatedly order a Meat Feast Pizza on their behalf. But they still live in a massive 3.5m pound town house in Belsize Park. It's gated off from the rest of the street and covered in CCTV cameras. If you can't get good energy in that haven of luxury, getting a handful of Kabbalists to chant dreary psalms in the sitting room is unlikely to make a difference. Besides, if Chris Martin spends time rehearsing at home, any ghost loitering in the airing cupboard is going to be familiar with dirgy chanting.
So as the perfume ads give way for chirpy chav-friendly invitations to furniture warehouse sales, I'm back at work. No time to do my foreign adventures justice. But just enough time to comment on the spooky goings on in my neighbourhood.
Macrobiotic drudge Chris Martin and his marginally more interesting wife, Gwyneth Paltrow, have decided that their house is full of bad energy. Apparently, this is to blame for Gwyneth's difficult second pregnancy (I suspect it's more to do with eating seeds and drinking fucking Yakult all the time). The rumours are that they're getting some followers of Kabbalah in to do some chanting and scare away the ghosts.
I happen to live opposite the Paltrow-Martins. The only bad energy I've sensed in the area is the bloody prices charged by the gas supplier. OK, so standing staring at their house for hours on end, tapping gently on their windows and flinging excrement into their front yard in the middle of the night isn't the kind of thing that's going convince Mr and Mrs P-M that the neighbourhood is bubbling with good energy. And perhaps it was wrong to repeatedly order a Meat Feast Pizza on their behalf. But they still live in a massive 3.5m pound town house in Belsize Park. It's gated off from the rest of the street and covered in CCTV cameras. If you can't get good energy in that haven of luxury, getting a handful of Kabbalists to chant dreary psalms in the sitting room is unlikely to make a difference. Besides, if Chris Martin spends time rehearsing at home, any ghost loitering in the airing cupboard is going to be familiar with dirgy chanting.
The new James Bond (13 October 2005)
Just a quick one, but I want to get some kind of comment in before the tedious stop-it-now-it's-getting-boring wait for the Broccoli mafia to announce which actor will "don the tuxedo" (copyright all lazy showbiz hacks) ends. And according to the BBC, the announcement might be made tomorrow.
Gosh, I can barely piss straight with excitement.
But I can, although I would have been all over the place if they'd cast the new Bond within a reasonable period of time. As it is, with the tiresome speculation going on for almost a year, this just seems like an overcooked publicity exercise.
However, the end is in sight. And, yes, the toilet seat is getting sprinkled a bit. But partly with nerves as well as excitement. I'm worried about the recent rumours that suggest the filmmakers are taking the world's best film franchise, strapping it to a table and burning a laser beam right up its jaffas.
No Q? No gadgets? Bond aged 28? Oh sod off. The last time they tried this kind of reinvention the franchise spluttered to a six year halt and fed Timothy Dalton's career to the sharks. Looney Tunes: Back in Action? Oh, Tim.
The thing is, Dalton was a brilliant Bond. The Living Daylights is a great film. Back then the filmakers were trying to make Bond a bit more realistic, with a harder edge - and in general it didn't go down well. But even during that experiment, Bond was still in his forties and had a few toys to play with. So the choice to stray even further away from the successful and comforting formula is worrying. (Gold)fingers crossed.
The new man can't be any worse than Pierce Brosnan, the preening prince of punir. Straight out of the jumpers page of the Freeman's catalogue he squinted his way through two shit films, one good one and one which I can't work out whether I like or not, all the way ripping off the four previous Eon Bonds. His so called emotional side he nicked off Tim. His attempts at humour and charm he half-inched from Sir Rog. His affected swagger and style was from Connery and his complete shitness he took wholesale from Lazenby. That's a bit unfair actually. George Lazenby was quite good.
Anyway that transatlantic fucker's gone now. The favourite for the job is Daniel Craig. He's got my vote - certainly he's the best actor in the running and he looks the part as well (or he would with a bit of boot polish rubbed into his hair). I think he would be an excellent James Bond. Otherwise there's Clive Owen. I used to think he'd be good, until I saw him act. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think that when Albion is threatened and King Arthur majestically returns to defend the realm he'll speak in a Kermit the Frog-esque monotone. Also some children called Sam Worthington and Henry Cavill are in the running. And the less said about Jude Law, the better, but suffice to say, if the producers of Casino Royale want a smug balding twat in the role they'd do better to ask back Sean Connery.
One thing's for sure. You can guarantee that whoever is picked to be the Bond girl will give interviews saying, "my character's different from all other Bond girls, she's Bond's equal and more assertive". Yeah, whatever love - you'll proceed to spend two hours stuck on a ledge in your bikini screaming, "James, James, help me James", before getting nailed by 007 and caught mid-coitus by M/Q/Thatcher/The Queen/Pope Benedict XVI etc.
Gosh, I can barely piss straight with excitement.
But I can, although I would have been all over the place if they'd cast the new Bond within a reasonable period of time. As it is, with the tiresome speculation going on for almost a year, this just seems like an overcooked publicity exercise.
However, the end is in sight. And, yes, the toilet seat is getting sprinkled a bit. But partly with nerves as well as excitement. I'm worried about the recent rumours that suggest the filmmakers are taking the world's best film franchise, strapping it to a table and burning a laser beam right up its jaffas.
No Q? No gadgets? Bond aged 28? Oh sod off. The last time they tried this kind of reinvention the franchise spluttered to a six year halt and fed Timothy Dalton's career to the sharks. Looney Tunes: Back in Action? Oh, Tim.
The thing is, Dalton was a brilliant Bond. The Living Daylights is a great film. Back then the filmakers were trying to make Bond a bit more realistic, with a harder edge - and in general it didn't go down well. But even during that experiment, Bond was still in his forties and had a few toys to play with. So the choice to stray even further away from the successful and comforting formula is worrying. (Gold)fingers crossed.
The new man can't be any worse than Pierce Brosnan, the preening prince of punir. Straight out of the jumpers page of the Freeman's catalogue he squinted his way through two shit films, one good one and one which I can't work out whether I like or not, all the way ripping off the four previous Eon Bonds. His so called emotional side he nicked off Tim. His attempts at humour and charm he half-inched from Sir Rog. His affected swagger and style was from Connery and his complete shitness he took wholesale from Lazenby. That's a bit unfair actually. George Lazenby was quite good.
Anyway that transatlantic fucker's gone now. The favourite for the job is Daniel Craig. He's got my vote - certainly he's the best actor in the running and he looks the part as well (or he would with a bit of boot polish rubbed into his hair). I think he would be an excellent James Bond. Otherwise there's Clive Owen. I used to think he'd be good, until I saw him act. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think that when Albion is threatened and King Arthur majestically returns to defend the realm he'll speak in a Kermit the Frog-esque monotone. Also some children called Sam Worthington and Henry Cavill are in the running. And the less said about Jude Law, the better, but suffice to say, if the producers of Casino Royale want a smug balding twat in the role they'd do better to ask back Sean Connery.
One thing's for sure. You can guarantee that whoever is picked to be the Bond girl will give interviews saying, "my character's different from all other Bond girls, she's Bond's equal and more assertive". Yeah, whatever love - you'll proceed to spend two hours stuck on a ledge in your bikini screaming, "James, James, help me James", before getting nailed by 007 and caught mid-coitus by M/Q/Thatcher/The Queen/Pope Benedict XVI etc.
September Gigs (23 September 2005)
September again, a month with the potential to fling you into a mortar and, with its autumnal pestle, grimly powderise you. Then drive a steamroller over your remains.
Yep, September grinds me down. With the exception of last year's glorious ninth month, it brings the end of any hopes for summer, unwelcome memories of new school years (disinfected classrooms and being forced to play football in arctic storms) and getting out of bed and leaving work when it's dark.
And I haven't done much with September this year, except work and worry about work. There have, however, been a couple of recent noteworthy events.
Last week Matt, Jerry and I went to Zigfrid in Hoxton and saw Lou Rhodes doing her thing. At the risk of sounding like a broken record (and not a very good one at that, certainly not Beloved One by Lou Rhodes) it was great. My six month Guinness hiatus came to a malty end and by the time the support (excellent acoustic sets by Ed Laurie and ex-Lamber Oddur Mar Runnarson) had ended I was half-cut. Guinness or no Guinness, the atmosphere there was relaxed and ultra friendly. I found myself chatting to various people, all of whom enthusiastically chatted back. It's so unusual in London to be at a gig (or out anywhere) and for there to be a complete absence of aggression. Perhaps encouraged by this, after spotting Lou packing away and with the desire to right past wrongs, I trotted over.
"Lou," I smiled. "My name's Rob. I'd just like to say how much I enjoyed your music this evening."
Her eyes sparkled with delight. "I recognise you", she purred. "I've noticed you at some Lamb gigs. I once saw you in the Tipi field at Glastonbury, and felt so sad when you didn't come and speak to me. And then I saw you again at this year's Glastonbury. You seemed so ill, all I wanted to do was abandon the gig and nurse you back to health. But unfortunately that would have meant breaking my deal to perform there, and Michael Eavis is a real fucker when it comes to breach of contractual obligations."
"Tell me about it," I said archly. "What you need is a clause in there allowing you to forgo a performance on compassionate grounds. I'll happily draft one for you. Here's my business card."
She took it coyly. After a moment she said, "All this talk of the niceties of legal drafting makes me go weak at the knees. I don't want your office address. Take me to your home, now."
Actually, I can't quite vouch for the above being a verbatim transcript of our conversation. I'm having trouble remembering. I suspect the following may be more accurate:
Me: "Bleurggh, um, Lou, how the fahk are you you were fuurrrrkin great man."
Her [eyes sparkling with terror]: "Thank you."
Me: "Buerouhgg jegh hergl I love Lamnalldatshit and I think that...um...all reeeeeeallly good...great...urm...hfoipn."
Her: "..."
Me: "I'm ganna come again, aaand again yes I aam. Bye, great chhat."
Ah well.
The following evening I went to another gig, JJ72 again, in the Islington Academy. The requisite aggression was there this time, mainly from me getting pissed off with the gig goers who insist on barging to the front and then spend the entire gig either (a) standing there like one of those wanky out of work actors in Covent Garden pretending to be a statue or (b) chatting loudly all the way through. One such talky twat put me off-side from the start by braying away to some midget woman he was obviously trying to pull.
"Yeah, they were quite big about five years ago, they're a bit crap actually, middle of the road." Could have been worse I suppose. He could have said they sounded like Placebo.
I enjoyed the gig and was pleasantly surprised by the support, a band called Red Organ Serpent Sound. I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic when they strolled to their instruments, all face paint and bowler hats. The lead singer then bounded on stage. He was wearing what appeared to be a red sock over his head and large white rimmed dark glasses. A top hat was rammed down firmly on the sock. He was also clad in a leotard, and wore a red boxing glove on his left hand. In fact he looked a bit like this. At first, as the guitars screamed into action I worried that this might be a death metal/performance art hybrid. But it was fun, highly charged, good music. Kraftwerk inspired lyrics from a song called Autobahn - "Autobahn, autobahn...DAS AUTOBAHN". I think they probably all went to art school together.
This week I decided to go upmarket, and accompanied my parents to the Ritz for afternoon tea, after starving myself. I was a little disappointed in that it reminded me of the Egyptian Hall at Harrods, the columns dripping with gold leaf while stucco lions roared down from the ceiling. Also, our fellow tea takers were hardly what I would have expected (something out of Agatha Christie perhaps) although at least their hoop earrings went with the décor. But the service was impeccable, the tea perfect and the sandwiches and scones just kept coming. I left feeling quite sick, exactly as planned.
Yep, September grinds me down. With the exception of last year's glorious ninth month, it brings the end of any hopes for summer, unwelcome memories of new school years (disinfected classrooms and being forced to play football in arctic storms) and getting out of bed and leaving work when it's dark.
And I haven't done much with September this year, except work and worry about work. There have, however, been a couple of recent noteworthy events.
Last week Matt, Jerry and I went to Zigfrid in Hoxton and saw Lou Rhodes doing her thing. At the risk of sounding like a broken record (and not a very good one at that, certainly not Beloved One by Lou Rhodes) it was great. My six month Guinness hiatus came to a malty end and by the time the support (excellent acoustic sets by Ed Laurie and ex-Lamber Oddur Mar Runnarson) had ended I was half-cut. Guinness or no Guinness, the atmosphere there was relaxed and ultra friendly. I found myself chatting to various people, all of whom enthusiastically chatted back. It's so unusual in London to be at a gig (or out anywhere) and for there to be a complete absence of aggression. Perhaps encouraged by this, after spotting Lou packing away and with the desire to right past wrongs, I trotted over.
"Lou," I smiled. "My name's Rob. I'd just like to say how much I enjoyed your music this evening."
Her eyes sparkled with delight. "I recognise you", she purred. "I've noticed you at some Lamb gigs. I once saw you in the Tipi field at Glastonbury, and felt so sad when you didn't come and speak to me. And then I saw you again at this year's Glastonbury. You seemed so ill, all I wanted to do was abandon the gig and nurse you back to health. But unfortunately that would have meant breaking my deal to perform there, and Michael Eavis is a real fucker when it comes to breach of contractual obligations."
"Tell me about it," I said archly. "What you need is a clause in there allowing you to forgo a performance on compassionate grounds. I'll happily draft one for you. Here's my business card."
She took it coyly. After a moment she said, "All this talk of the niceties of legal drafting makes me go weak at the knees. I don't want your office address. Take me to your home, now."
Actually, I can't quite vouch for the above being a verbatim transcript of our conversation. I'm having trouble remembering. I suspect the following may be more accurate:
Me: "Bleurggh, um, Lou, how the fahk are you you were fuurrrrkin great man."
Her [eyes sparkling with terror]: "Thank you."
Me: "Buerouhgg jegh hergl I love Lamnalldatshit and I think that...um...all reeeeeeallly good...great...urm...hfoipn."
Her: "..."
Me: "I'm ganna come again, aaand again yes I aam. Bye, great chhat."
Ah well.
The following evening I went to another gig, JJ72 again, in the Islington Academy. The requisite aggression was there this time, mainly from me getting pissed off with the gig goers who insist on barging to the front and then spend the entire gig either (a) standing there like one of those wanky out of work actors in Covent Garden pretending to be a statue or (b) chatting loudly all the way through. One such talky twat put me off-side from the start by braying away to some midget woman he was obviously trying to pull.
"Yeah, they were quite big about five years ago, they're a bit crap actually, middle of the road." Could have been worse I suppose. He could have said they sounded like Placebo.
I enjoyed the gig and was pleasantly surprised by the support, a band called Red Organ Serpent Sound. I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic when they strolled to their instruments, all face paint and bowler hats. The lead singer then bounded on stage. He was wearing what appeared to be a red sock over his head and large white rimmed dark glasses. A top hat was rammed down firmly on the sock. He was also clad in a leotard, and wore a red boxing glove on his left hand. In fact he looked a bit like this. At first, as the guitars screamed into action I worried that this might be a death metal/performance art hybrid. But it was fun, highly charged, good music. Kraftwerk inspired lyrics from a song called Autobahn - "Autobahn, autobahn...DAS AUTOBAHN". I think they probably all went to art school together.
This week I decided to go upmarket, and accompanied my parents to the Ritz for afternoon tea, after starving myself. I was a little disappointed in that it reminded me of the Egyptian Hall at Harrods, the columns dripping with gold leaf while stucco lions roared down from the ceiling. Also, our fellow tea takers were hardly what I would have expected (something out of Agatha Christie perhaps) although at least their hoop earrings went with the décor. But the service was impeccable, the tea perfect and the sandwiches and scones just kept coming. I left feeling quite sick, exactly as planned.
As You Like It (26 August 2005)
"Wonderful" - Daily Mail.
So say the billboards outside Wyndham's Theatre, tempting punters into the current production, Arse You Lick It.
Private Eye helpfully places this in context:
What Quentin Letts actually said was this: "All the knowing innovation finally proves too much in David Lan's arch-casual direction...Shakespeare's wonderful story is near indestructible but the aftertaste here is of tinny, modernist zeal."
Of course, anything that provokes even the slightest grumble from the Daily Mail has to be checked out, so I bought a couple of tickets. I've always been a bit irritated by AYLI, but my interest in all things bardic had been revived by seeing the National Theatre's excellent Theatre of Blood the week before. I skipped down to the box office 90 minutes before curtain up in good faith.
The performance started a little earlier than I had anticipated. As I was leaving the box office, tickets in hand, I noticed two burly fellows standing just outside the doors, large cameras discretely held behind their backs.
"'Ere she is," said one of them.
A car had pulled up to the curb. Sienna Miller and a yobbish looking bodyguard got out and made a beeline for the door, as the Paps let off multiple flashes in her face. As they did they crashed back and forth, barging into anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. I was shielded by two women, who were bundled into the wall in pursuit of that elusive shot of Miller brushing some grit away from her eye ("Sienna Weeps!").
The play itself was faintly tedious, but the terminally unfunny source material was often managed in a way which brought some humour to the lines. The above mentioned Ms.Miller, although a bit awkward on stage, acquitted herself in her supporting role better than her erstwhile fiancé could ever do. I enjoyed Reece Sheersmith's Jacques but I imagine purists would disapprove of the absence of melancholy in his performance. Dominic West and Helen McCrory were, y'know, alright, as the leads. I thought the latter a bit too shouty. In fact everyone on stage was a bit too shouty. This was a bit frustrating because really all I wanted to do myself was shout. Loudly. At my fellow audience members.
It amazes me that people don't know how to behave in a theatre. For a start, it was like sitting in a TB ward, the two old gimmers behind me hacking up their guts at frequent intervals. It was as much as I could do not to turn round and look at them pointedly as Sheersmith gave us life's final scene - "...second childishness and mere oblivion/Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." Actually, it sounded as though they were already sans teeth. In between the curdling of their phlegm, they popped cough sweets, which rattled around their mouths resulting in the unpleasant salival smacking of lips. I could have done that for them.
At other times I could hear theatregoers' comments on the action unfolding on stage from three or four rows away ("Oh yes, isn't he fan-tas-tic?"). Another cougher on the opposite side of the theatre was prompting annoyed head-turns from all around her. Someone (remarkably not an English teacher) was laughing like a deranged harridan at Sean Hughes's Touchstone, perhaps Shakespeare's least amusing character (and that includes Lear, Macbeth and Bottom).
There was a point where I was convinced it must have been some kind of conspiracy. Behind me, there was the sound of frenzied hacking and bile bubbling on lips. To my left, a man was furiously playing with his change. To my right, a girl was loudly complaining to her boyfriend in Japanese. But no, it was just your average Wednesday night at a celebrity-heavy play in the West End.
Perhaps my indifference to the play itself is testament to the quality of the production. Given the distracting goings-on off stage, I could easily have turned my anger towards the performance. But although it wasn't great, I enjoyed it. Maybe then, if those behind me had already reached the eighth stage of Man, the Japanese had stayed in Tokyo and the harridan had laid off the Seroxat, I would have been treated to a "wonderful" play.
So say the billboards outside Wyndham's Theatre, tempting punters into the current production, Arse You Lick It.
Private Eye helpfully places this in context:
What Quentin Letts actually said was this: "All the knowing innovation finally proves too much in David Lan's arch-casual direction...Shakespeare's wonderful story is near indestructible but the aftertaste here is of tinny, modernist zeal."
Of course, anything that provokes even the slightest grumble from the Daily Mail has to be checked out, so I bought a couple of tickets. I've always been a bit irritated by AYLI, but my interest in all things bardic had been revived by seeing the National Theatre's excellent Theatre of Blood the week before. I skipped down to the box office 90 minutes before curtain up in good faith.
The performance started a little earlier than I had anticipated. As I was leaving the box office, tickets in hand, I noticed two burly fellows standing just outside the doors, large cameras discretely held behind their backs.
"'Ere she is," said one of them.
A car had pulled up to the curb. Sienna Miller and a yobbish looking bodyguard got out and made a beeline for the door, as the Paps let off multiple flashes in her face. As they did they crashed back and forth, barging into anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. I was shielded by two women, who were bundled into the wall in pursuit of that elusive shot of Miller brushing some grit away from her eye ("Sienna Weeps!").
The play itself was faintly tedious, but the terminally unfunny source material was often managed in a way which brought some humour to the lines. The above mentioned Ms.Miller, although a bit awkward on stage, acquitted herself in her supporting role better than her erstwhile fiancé could ever do. I enjoyed Reece Sheersmith's Jacques but I imagine purists would disapprove of the absence of melancholy in his performance. Dominic West and Helen McCrory were, y'know, alright, as the leads. I thought the latter a bit too shouty. In fact everyone on stage was a bit too shouty. This was a bit frustrating because really all I wanted to do myself was shout. Loudly. At my fellow audience members.
It amazes me that people don't know how to behave in a theatre. For a start, it was like sitting in a TB ward, the two old gimmers behind me hacking up their guts at frequent intervals. It was as much as I could do not to turn round and look at them pointedly as Sheersmith gave us life's final scene - "...second childishness and mere oblivion/Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." Actually, it sounded as though they were already sans teeth. In between the curdling of their phlegm, they popped cough sweets, which rattled around their mouths resulting in the unpleasant salival smacking of lips. I could have done that for them.
At other times I could hear theatregoers' comments on the action unfolding on stage from three or four rows away ("Oh yes, isn't he fan-tas-tic?"). Another cougher on the opposite side of the theatre was prompting annoyed head-turns from all around her. Someone (remarkably not an English teacher) was laughing like a deranged harridan at Sean Hughes's Touchstone, perhaps Shakespeare's least amusing character (and that includes Lear, Macbeth and Bottom).
There was a point where I was convinced it must have been some kind of conspiracy. Behind me, there was the sound of frenzied hacking and bile bubbling on lips. To my left, a man was furiously playing with his change. To my right, a girl was loudly complaining to her boyfriend in Japanese. But no, it was just your average Wednesday night at a celebrity-heavy play in the West End.
Perhaps my indifference to the play itself is testament to the quality of the production. Given the distracting goings-on off stage, I could easily have turned my anger towards the performance. But although it wasn't great, I enjoyed it. Maybe then, if those behind me had already reached the eighth stage of Man, the Japanese had stayed in Tokyo and the harridan had laid off the Seroxat, I would have been treated to a "wonderful" play.
French Wedding (17 August 2005)
This year I've been raising the bar of various personal records. These include some lows:
- Most Hours of Reality Shows Watched
- Loudest Volume Shouting at the Television
- Least Exercise Done
I think the above must be related. There have been some high points as well:
- Most Wafers Eaten in 60 Seconds
- Most Hours Wasted at Work Surfing the Internet
The year has also brought Most Weddings Attended. This wasn't a particularly hard one to beat, given my previous personal best of one. But I've just attended the third of 2005, with at least two more on the horizon.
The most recent occasion I was invited to bathe in the soft-focus union of two consenting adults was over in France, where two friends from my Hong Kong days were tying the knot, or attacher le noeud if you fancy. So the other weekend, the petite-amie and I scurried past the copious machine gun bearing policemen at Gatwick towards the EasyJet counter and then onto one of their lurid shabby aeroplanes. The craft itself was staffed by miserable looking individuals, dressed like shelf-stackers from some low-rent provincial supermarket, and indeed they pushed the drinks cart up the aisle with as much goodwill as they would trolleys around a car park.
Why such bile for this cut-price, cut-corners airline? After all, we took off without a hitch, cruised across the Channel and France without difficulty and neatly glided onto the runway at Geneva.
Because they lost my fucking luggage.
Yes, in a just world my ugly words would be directed towards the baggage handlers - but I didn't see them, busy as they probably were rummaging through suitcases and planning wildcat strikes. Somehow I knew it was going to happen - perhaps it was the moon faced cretin at the Gatwick check-in desk who piqued my vague premonition. He told me that I couldn't check in my half-empty rucksack at the normal desk. For some reason this bag, which when full has travelled around the world without a problem, had to be checked in at the Oversize Baggage Desk. This 'desk' was actually a hole in the wall on the other side of the terminal. Clearly my precious things weren't going to turn up at the other end. So, in Geneva, when the empty carousel shuddered to a halt it was only frustration, not surprise, that accompanied me to the office to make a report.
Lost baggage reported and new road maps bought, we picked up the Seat Ibiza (another record: Shittest Vehicles Hired) and headed into the suburbs of Geneva. Unfortunately the maps I'd bought in the airport, as opposed to the one sitting in my bag in Calcutta (or wherever), weren't especially good at particularising the niceties of the city's roads. This, coupled with the baffling Swiss aversion to sign posts, meant it was a good hour before we were in France and crawling over the foothills of the Alps. From then on the journey was pleasantly straightforward. Stopping at a hypermarché, I replaced various toiletries and bought some underwear. Luckily I had travelled in my suit, and only lacked a shirt and tie. I found a white shirt, neatly folded in a cellophane wrapper. It did have a button down collar, but I was happy to make concessions for being on the continent. And so we motored towards the pretty village of St. Jean de Losne, the journey only remarkable for the alluring countryside and a couple of beret clad men in stripy shirts on bikes whom I had to swerve to avoid. And they had strings of onions around their necks and were smoking Gauloises and everything.
The hotel was situated on the banks of the Losne and run by a very friendly woman, obviously charmed by my crap French. I managed to convey to her that I had lost my bag, and the following day she was extremely helpful in trying to retrieve it. After checking in (which can be more accurately described as being waved upstairs) I eagerly ripped open the packaging of my new shirt to discover that it had short sleeves and was clearly designed for gentle afternoons of pétanque in dusty village squares, rather than attendance at upmarket international weddings. Another piece of luck though - a friend was staying in the same hotel and he had a spare shirt (my size), tie (almost my taste) and women's cufflinks (I'm game), so I was more or less fully equipped.
The following day we spent the morning idly navigating the streets of the town. Dogs lolled in the sunshine, a suspicious number of 1950s Citroens puttered along the roads and fishermen lined the banks of the river, along with the one sitting in the middle of it on an inflatable armchair. We had an enormous lunch - mussels and a plate of meats (possibly a mistake as it turned out) before getting in a taxi to a neighbouring village for the wedding, about which I had almost forgotten.
The wedding seemed to go well, although I can't be sure as most of it was in French. The bride looked lovely, the groom sheepish, there were no hymns (hurrah!) and the reading from 1 Corinthians 13 completed a language hat trick for that particular passage (I've heard it in English and Welsh at two other ceremonies). The reception was at the bride's family's chateau on the edge of the village, an attractive country house sitting in its own wooded grounds. We were treated to English and French speeches in between courses as well as what was apparently a traditional Burgundy hand clapping/waving ritual and a very drunken, very Irish, a cappella rendition of "Where the Blarney Roses Grow". By the time the croquembouche was wheeled out I was far too full to eat anything else. Besides, there were ominous rumblings in my stomach. After the meal a huge bonfire was lit and fireworks let off perilously near the house.
It was an exceptionally happy and classy wedding. So it was with a sense of sorrow (as well as rising nausea) that I had to splatter a remote toilet of the chateau with the effects of mild food poisoning. I blame a dodgy mussel. This, combined with a bottle of wine, meant that I was pretty dehydrated by the next morning and felt terrible. Despite unfortunate bodily malfunctions, I managed to safely return the car to Geneva, although in my weakened state I was vulnerable to the empty promises of the Duty Free shop.
- Most Hours of Reality Shows Watched
- Loudest Volume Shouting at the Television
- Least Exercise Done
I think the above must be related. There have been some high points as well:
- Most Wafers Eaten in 60 Seconds
- Most Hours Wasted at Work Surfing the Internet
The year has also brought Most Weddings Attended. This wasn't a particularly hard one to beat, given my previous personal best of one. But I've just attended the third of 2005, with at least two more on the horizon.
The most recent occasion I was invited to bathe in the soft-focus union of two consenting adults was over in France, where two friends from my Hong Kong days were tying the knot, or attacher le noeud if you fancy. So the other weekend, the petite-amie and I scurried past the copious machine gun bearing policemen at Gatwick towards the EasyJet counter and then onto one of their lurid shabby aeroplanes. The craft itself was staffed by miserable looking individuals, dressed like shelf-stackers from some low-rent provincial supermarket, and indeed they pushed the drinks cart up the aisle with as much goodwill as they would trolleys around a car park.
Why such bile for this cut-price, cut-corners airline? After all, we took off without a hitch, cruised across the Channel and France without difficulty and neatly glided onto the runway at Geneva.
Because they lost my fucking luggage.
Yes, in a just world my ugly words would be directed towards the baggage handlers - but I didn't see them, busy as they probably were rummaging through suitcases and planning wildcat strikes. Somehow I knew it was going to happen - perhaps it was the moon faced cretin at the Gatwick check-in desk who piqued my vague premonition. He told me that I couldn't check in my half-empty rucksack at the normal desk. For some reason this bag, which when full has travelled around the world without a problem, had to be checked in at the Oversize Baggage Desk. This 'desk' was actually a hole in the wall on the other side of the terminal. Clearly my precious things weren't going to turn up at the other end. So, in Geneva, when the empty carousel shuddered to a halt it was only frustration, not surprise, that accompanied me to the office to make a report.
Lost baggage reported and new road maps bought, we picked up the Seat Ibiza (another record: Shittest Vehicles Hired) and headed into the suburbs of Geneva. Unfortunately the maps I'd bought in the airport, as opposed to the one sitting in my bag in Calcutta (or wherever), weren't especially good at particularising the niceties of the city's roads. This, coupled with the baffling Swiss aversion to sign posts, meant it was a good hour before we were in France and crawling over the foothills of the Alps. From then on the journey was pleasantly straightforward. Stopping at a hypermarché, I replaced various toiletries and bought some underwear. Luckily I had travelled in my suit, and only lacked a shirt and tie. I found a white shirt, neatly folded in a cellophane wrapper. It did have a button down collar, but I was happy to make concessions for being on the continent. And so we motored towards the pretty village of St. Jean de Losne, the journey only remarkable for the alluring countryside and a couple of beret clad men in stripy shirts on bikes whom I had to swerve to avoid. And they had strings of onions around their necks and were smoking Gauloises and everything.
The hotel was situated on the banks of the Losne and run by a very friendly woman, obviously charmed by my crap French. I managed to convey to her that I had lost my bag, and the following day she was extremely helpful in trying to retrieve it. After checking in (which can be more accurately described as being waved upstairs) I eagerly ripped open the packaging of my new shirt to discover that it had short sleeves and was clearly designed for gentle afternoons of pétanque in dusty village squares, rather than attendance at upmarket international weddings. Another piece of luck though - a friend was staying in the same hotel and he had a spare shirt (my size), tie (almost my taste) and women's cufflinks (I'm game), so I was more or less fully equipped.
The following day we spent the morning idly navigating the streets of the town. Dogs lolled in the sunshine, a suspicious number of 1950s Citroens puttered along the roads and fishermen lined the banks of the river, along with the one sitting in the middle of it on an inflatable armchair. We had an enormous lunch - mussels and a plate of meats (possibly a mistake as it turned out) before getting in a taxi to a neighbouring village for the wedding, about which I had almost forgotten.
The wedding seemed to go well, although I can't be sure as most of it was in French. The bride looked lovely, the groom sheepish, there were no hymns (hurrah!) and the reading from 1 Corinthians 13 completed a language hat trick for that particular passage (I've heard it in English and Welsh at two other ceremonies). The reception was at the bride's family's chateau on the edge of the village, an attractive country house sitting in its own wooded grounds. We were treated to English and French speeches in between courses as well as what was apparently a traditional Burgundy hand clapping/waving ritual and a very drunken, very Irish, a cappella rendition of "Where the Blarney Roses Grow". By the time the croquembouche was wheeled out I was far too full to eat anything else. Besides, there were ominous rumblings in my stomach. After the meal a huge bonfire was lit and fireworks let off perilously near the house.
It was an exceptionally happy and classy wedding. So it was with a sense of sorrow (as well as rising nausea) that I had to splatter a remote toilet of the chateau with the effects of mild food poisoning. I blame a dodgy mussel. This, combined with a bottle of wine, meant that I was pretty dehydrated by the next morning and felt terrible. Despite unfortunate bodily malfunctions, I managed to safely return the car to Geneva, although in my weakened state I was vulnerable to the empty promises of the Duty Free shop.
Sanpshot of 2005 (11 August 2005)
Coming out of Clapham South station yesterday evening, I turned down Balham Hill. Walking towards me I noticed a text book example of mutton dressed as lamb, exposing far too much dried out flesh on the top half of her body, so orange it would have put Donatella Versace to shame. Inevitably her bottom half was clad in one of those ubiquitous white gypsy skirts. Surely the only statement these things now make is 'my smug balding partner is cheating on me with the porcine hired help.'
Then she stepped on a dog, a small terrier innocently trotting along the pavement with his owner. The dog let out a shriek, which I initially took to be the opening note of a nearby siren, before shakily trying to hide himself in between his owner's legs. The owner turned to look at the old hag, waiting for an apology. None was forthcoming. The woman, who has clearly never taken responsibility for a thing in her life, simply looked disgusted with everyone in the world bar herself, before continuing to drag her carcass towards the nearest Yates's Wine Lodge (or wherever).
When I'm walking on the street and someone bumps into me or steps on my toe, I normally wait until they are a safe distance away and proffer up a small curse (e.g. 'I hope all your children have very small dicks...and that includes the girls'). Despite this, a part of me recognises that I'm not a helpless victim, being blessed with the ability to move (at least until I misjudge the appropriate volume of some post-collision insult). But this woman was about 5 times the height of the mutt, and, unlike him, not hindered by a lead. And yet somehow it was the dog's fault. To fall back on my extensive knowledge of canine terminology, what a bitch.
Further down the hill I passed the Duke of Devonshire. The pub, not the grandee. On the blackboard outside was written, in that spiky chalk lettering so beloved of aspirational boozers, 'As winter draws in, enjoy the fire in our saloon bar.'
It's 10 August, for fuck's sake! Don't take summer away from me just yet. I don't get to enjoy it much, being cooped up in a tall chunk of glass for the best part of the day. I'm stuck in an office, the window of which doesn't entice streams of sunlight to fall across my joyfully tapping fingers. Instead it looks even further into the tower, all artificial light and Sick Building Syndrome. So let summer stay, just for a while.
Then she stepped on a dog, a small terrier innocently trotting along the pavement with his owner. The dog let out a shriek, which I initially took to be the opening note of a nearby siren, before shakily trying to hide himself in between his owner's legs. The owner turned to look at the old hag, waiting for an apology. None was forthcoming. The woman, who has clearly never taken responsibility for a thing in her life, simply looked disgusted with everyone in the world bar herself, before continuing to drag her carcass towards the nearest Yates's Wine Lodge (or wherever).
When I'm walking on the street and someone bumps into me or steps on my toe, I normally wait until they are a safe distance away and proffer up a small curse (e.g. 'I hope all your children have very small dicks...and that includes the girls'). Despite this, a part of me recognises that I'm not a helpless victim, being blessed with the ability to move (at least until I misjudge the appropriate volume of some post-collision insult). But this woman was about 5 times the height of the mutt, and, unlike him, not hindered by a lead. And yet somehow it was the dog's fault. To fall back on my extensive knowledge of canine terminology, what a bitch.
Further down the hill I passed the Duke of Devonshire. The pub, not the grandee. On the blackboard outside was written, in that spiky chalk lettering so beloved of aspirational boozers, 'As winter draws in, enjoy the fire in our saloon bar.'
It's 10 August, for fuck's sake! Don't take summer away from me just yet. I don't get to enjoy it much, being cooped up in a tall chunk of glass for the best part of the day. I'm stuck in an office, the window of which doesn't entice streams of sunlight to fall across my joyfully tapping fingers. Instead it looks even further into the tower, all artificial light and Sick Building Syndrome. So let summer stay, just for a while.
Moving (18 July 2005)
Back in those care free June days it seemed like a good idea to move further away from work. In between smugly blogging plans to move, I relished emancipation from EC1's concrete and the daily sight of the Barbican's jagged towers. Now following "a major incident" (in the awkwardly coy language of Transport for London) I wonder whether living within walking distance of the office was such a bad thing.
But it's done now, and it was all pretty painless - especially finding the new flat, which is a lovely place on a quiet treelined road. Following one and half years in Clerkenwell I'd almost forgotten what a leaf looked like. On Friday I took the day off work, as did my wonderfully supportive girlfriend, and hired a white van. All Congestion Charged up with my foot hesistantly tapping the gas, we headed into the maelstrom. The traffic in London on Friday was horrific, as the Budget car hire man cheerfully predicted when he handed me the keys that morning. Apparently a large number of citizens have, since 7 July, abandoned the buses and tubes and taken their cars out for a spin. It didn't help that I had to putter along the Euston road, even more snarled up than the rest of this blighted city. Half the streets off it were closed, including the one leading to Tavistock Square, the route shielded by 20 foot high tarpaulin stretching from building to building. It took over an hour to get from Clerkenwell to Belsize Park and I rarely moved out of first gear, spending most of the time staring out at the chaotic tangle of vehicles, grimy and spluttering. Thank God I managed to cram everything I owned into the back of the Renault Kangoo (except, alas two tea towels, currently sitting forgotten in a deserted EC1 kitchen). Two trips in that heat and traffic would have severely tested my resolve.
I've already taken advantage of the new neighbourhood. Earlier in the week, I sidled down the hill towards Camden to catch JJ72 attempting to propel themselves back into the city's collective CD player. The last time I enjoyed their fantastically fey rock was in 2002, when they filled the London Forum. Then they disappeared. Last Tuesday they failed to sell out the Camden Underworld and were without their (ahem) watchable original bass player. But they still sounded stunning and their new bass player is equally watchable. And they're nothing like Placebo.
But it's done now, and it was all pretty painless - especially finding the new flat, which is a lovely place on a quiet treelined road. Following one and half years in Clerkenwell I'd almost forgotten what a leaf looked like. On Friday I took the day off work, as did my wonderfully supportive girlfriend, and hired a white van. All Congestion Charged up with my foot hesistantly tapping the gas, we headed into the maelstrom. The traffic in London on Friday was horrific, as the Budget car hire man cheerfully predicted when he handed me the keys that morning. Apparently a large number of citizens have, since 7 July, abandoned the buses and tubes and taken their cars out for a spin. It didn't help that I had to putter along the Euston road, even more snarled up than the rest of this blighted city. Half the streets off it were closed, including the one leading to Tavistock Square, the route shielded by 20 foot high tarpaulin stretching from building to building. It took over an hour to get from Clerkenwell to Belsize Park and I rarely moved out of first gear, spending most of the time staring out at the chaotic tangle of vehicles, grimy and spluttering. Thank God I managed to cram everything I owned into the back of the Renault Kangoo (except, alas two tea towels, currently sitting forgotten in a deserted EC1 kitchen). Two trips in that heat and traffic would have severely tested my resolve.
I've already taken advantage of the new neighbourhood. Earlier in the week, I sidled down the hill towards Camden to catch JJ72 attempting to propel themselves back into the city's collective CD player. The last time I enjoyed their fantastically fey rock was in 2002, when they filled the London Forum. Then they disappeared. Last Tuesday they failed to sell out the Camden Underworld and were without their (ahem) watchable original bass player. But they still sounded stunning and their new bass player is equally watchable. And they're nothing like Placebo.
Glastonbury 2005 (1 July 2005)
Wednesday
Overly keen, I arrived at Paddington with 40 minutes to spare, and spent the time sitting on my rucksack round the back of Burger King, contemplating the gradual concertina-ing of my spine. Carrying three tents plus other Glastonbury essentials from Clerkenwell to Paddington was already taking its toll. The atmosphere on the train was boisterous, carriages full of festival goers, who eventually spilled out into the sunshine bathing Castle Cary station and joined the queue for the free festival buses.
I found myself on an old coach, sat just behind the driver, a late middle-aged and affable man with a strong West Country accent. At one point, as the coach was trundling along the road, he left his post at the wheel to stroll across the vehicle and open the door ("for air") showing the kind of disregard for human life acquired only by ferrying charabancs of day-trippers around the country for forty years. Every now and again he'd bend the microphone down to his mouth to give his passengers news of the treats awaiting them on the farm, such as that, because of the hot weather, there was already a lot of nudity on the site -
"...and I mean nudity. There's going to be some burnt nipples tomorrow morning."
As if to underline the nipple theme, we turned a corner and the Glastonbury Tor hove into view. And then, to the left, the sprawling festival site unfolded, the sun glittering off the windscreens of hundreds of cars, the serpentine superfence shimmering in the haze.
Soon I was again stooping under the weight of the rucksack, staggering towards the campsite above the Pyramid Stage, sweat pouring off me. Already I was in need of a shower - unfortunately the nearest one of those was Monday afternoon. I didn't stop until I heard the buzzing of the power lines at which point I cast down the rucksack, pulled out the tents and started construction. There was a moment, hands full of indeterminate poles and awkwardly shaped canvas, when I wondered if really this was just a colossal waste of time, but suddenly the shells of three tents were there, pegged down and ready for the weekend. Meanwhile, I had spread the flysheet of one of the tents out to reserve an area for a fourth tent - being brought by Matt in the evening. I sat in my camping chair, watching over the space, like Greyfriars Bobby over the grave of his master, silently snarling at anyone who looked like encroaching on it. By the time Claire arrived onsite at about 6 in the evening, a Eurohike sponsored shanty town covered the hillside, an empty field six hours earlier. The space for the fourth tent was still there - but at what expense? I hadn't brought any suncream and Claire politely avoided mentioning the smell of burning flesh, as the skin of my arms and neck bubbled gently under the sun.
Matt arrived an hour or so later, and put up the tent intended for George and Rohan, turning up the next day to complete our little camp. Finally we had four tents (the others for Claire and me, Matt and Sally and a spare one) circling a small but adequate 'sitting around' area and I could relax - and as I did I realised the pain thundering around my head. Sunstroke - not so bad that I saw pink goblins scuttling down from the Stone Circle towards me - but painful and disorientating all the same. That was it - I escaped into my expertly erected tent for the evening.
Thursday
A day with nothing to do - but dozing sluglike in my luxurious sleeping bag wasn't an option. The unforgiving sun was turning the inside of the tent into a furnace, and we had to struggle outside after blearily pulling on clothes and poking in contact lenses. On wandering through the site I got the impression that most people had arrived - the place was packed, the dusty stall lined streets of the festival buzzed with people, the constant conveyor belt of the paths, a familiar feature of festivals, had begun.
At my insistence, Matt, Claire and I spent most of the time darting from shady area to shady area, since my burnt skin started to tingle the moment the sun's rays fell on it. We eventually took up refuge at the Avalon Stage, a blue marquee near the circus field. A good spot for people watching, we whiled away a few hours with a couple of bottles of perry. Pleasantly drunk, we resumed our wandering of the site, through the Tipi field and up into the Green Fields. In the Green Fields it was business as usual - one of the first sights that greeted us was a tree planting ceremony. A couple of hippies were in paroxysms of joy as earth was packed around the base of a small sapling. The intestinal belch of a didgeridoo and a child throwing confetti everywhere accompanied the spectacle. Eventually we found a shady corner of the Greenpeace Kids Field within which to doze off the effects of the perry.
The campsite was alive most of the evening, people sitting up and talking until 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, notably a group camped nearby who were yabbering away incessantly, a worthless stream of repetitive cretinous crap spewing from their diseased mouths. I quite enjoy sleepily eavesdropping on other people's conversations at festivals, but in this case, all I enjoyed was fantasising about bursting into the night, grabbing my mallet, tearing up all the pegs I could find and pitching a tent in their eyes.
Friday
By four in the morning, the campsite was quiet. Suddenly, from nowhere a strange wind coursed through the humid night, rippling the canvas, shaking the tents. I dozed off. I was woken by the clatter of heavy rain on the roof of the tent. There was a flash, then a few moments later deafening thunder crackled across the sky.
I retreated deeper inside the sleeping bag, waiting for the storm to move off. But the rain was unrelenting and the lightning got more frequent and violent, the thunder sounding like volleys of undisciplined artillery fire, increasing gradually in volume. At times the gap between the lightning and thunder grew longer, but not for long - the storm moved away from the valley only to circle back, returning with even more vehemence. I wondered if the deluge was focussed exclusively on the site, God finally deciding to kill all hippies.
At around 9am, I decided that I'd have to venture out. I pulled on jeans, trainers and a T-shirt, and with an umbrella headed into the storm. The rain continued to tumble down, heavy drops already accumulating into puddles, the hard earth unable to soak up the water. I splashed down the hill, past the Pyramid Stage. The flags aligning the path, that had flittered so colourfully the day before, were sticking limply to their poles.
At Joe Bananas, the famous blanket stall, business was brisk. I managed to grab a pair of size 11 wellies (a size too small, but inevitably "they only go up to 11") and a waterproof poncho - all of which set me back 30 quid. The prices at Glastonbury are remarkable - stall holders exploiting their captive audience. I don't think paying 4 pounds for a sausage in a bun is really in tune with the fair trade messages promoted incessantly elsewhere on the site. I headed back to the tent with my spoils, where I hid until the rain slowed to a light patter, and eventually, after a couple of deceptive lulls, stopped for good. Matt took up residence into the spare tent, apparently dissatisfied with the 'Indoor Rain' feature that came with his.
The music had been delayed for two hours. A beer tent had been struck by lightning (mmmm...electric beer). The site was crippled by power cuts. A hundred yards away from our tents, other campers found their temporary homes were pitched in the middle of a river - or otherwise discovered that these homes had already disappeared downstream. But the damage here was mild compared to the flooding at a campsite on the other side of the festival, where the tops of the tents peeked out from 4 feet of water.
Safe in my wellies, walking around the place was fascinating - there was shit everywhere. The paths were already past saving, deep with heavy sticky mud. Lakes had appeared, cutting off stalls while the garishly painted recycling bins bobbed around like debris from a ship wreck. Amongst the waterproofed wellied-up festival goers there were those painfully unprepared, shivering in their shorts and T-shirts, great clods of mud where their trainers used to be. And inevitably, the swimmers and divers were already out in force, covered from head to toe in sludge. If you ask me, it takes a considerable quantity of drugs to fling off your clothes and happily paddle around in what is essentially the excrement of thousands of strangers.
I popped into the Guardian Lounge - mainly to see what it was all about (sitting around on sofas with coffee and a copy of the paper) and caught the opening song of Brakes's set. The noise was a bit painful so, with Claire, I headed to the Pyramid Stage to watch The Zutons, who got the music proper off to an excellent start, although Claire didn't seem particularly willing to get involved in a discussion with me about whether or not Abi off The Zutons is fit.
After a few hours squelching here and there, and meeting up with Matt (who had been exiled to dry land - what was left of it - until Sally arrived with his boots) Sally, George and Rohan, I squelched about a bit more, but to the sound of The Killers who played a reassuringly familiar set, before Fat Zorro Jack White and his ex-wife Meg took the stage. The White Stripes were entertaining - in between messy and irritating bursts of noise and mini-tunes, they sounded great. However, I decided to trudge off before the end to find Lou Rhodes, and the others, less impressed by The White Stripes than me and emboldened by a few boxes of wine, decided to follow.
Up in the Small World Tent, far away from the heaving masses at the Pyramid Stage, Claire and I squeezed ourselves into a couple of seats (a.k.a the ground and a low table) next to a charcoal burning fire. On stage a refugee from the 1970s was leading a funky sounding band and playing jazz flute in between singing lines like:
"I want to leave, I want to leave, I want to leave the world of LSD, haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh."
The Small World stage was beautifully kitted out - red lanterns hung from the roof, their pleasant but muted glow meant the seated festival goers chatted in gentle semi-darkness, occasionally rising to get a hot drink from the bar at the back, or to let a man through to top up the coal on the fires. The others had disappeared - stuck in the mud and lost - but when they arrived half an hour later Lou Rhodes wasn't yet on stage, late for her half past midnight slot. When they left half an hour after that, the music still hadn't started. In the end, because of sound difficulties and a very slow set up, Lou and her band didn't appear until about 1:30am. But of course, naturally, inevitably, unsurprisingly, predictably (etc) it was worth the wait. Lou's new songs are in the vein of the Lamb lullabies, achingly beautiful, finely crafted and measured. Her voice is exquisite, aural treacle and I left the Small World Tent calm and happy. Claire left it fancying Lou Rhodes's double bassist.
It was the middle of the night. We strolled around the Green Fields a bit and poked our heads into random tents. In one, three of four people were sitting in the gloom watching a skinny bearded man playing the mandolin and singing about globalisation. The weak light pulsing out of the electric bulbs and the amplifier boosting the twanging of the mandolin were being powered by two men sitting astride a tandem, fixed to the ground. Their legs cycled continuously and the music was accompanied by the constant hiss of the turning wheels.
Eventually we headed back to the campsite through the quiet Green Fields, passing muffled pockets of sound - chanting in the distance, from the darkness somewhere near the path a guitar and elsewhere, the ubiquitous bongos. And then we were back in the centre of the festival, where the lights still blazed and people wandered, more aimlessly than before, looking for that one last unexpected discovery before they called it a night.
Saturday
For the first time ever, I found myself at the Pyramid Stage for the opening band of the day - Hayseed Dixie, who famously perform bluegrass covers of rock classics. Pushing their new album, A Hot Piece of Grass, their hillbilly front man uttered a refreshingly un-Glastonbury like question - "Can you feel the evil?". As the redneck joke got a little tired, we took another trip across the site, through the Leftfield Stage, the circus field and past the acoustic tent, where Morris Dancers jingled their way through the morning.
Back to the Pyramid Stage to watch an high-energy set from the Kaiser Chiefs, a band I really don't want to like, but can't help doing so. At one point I turned my head (wishing to avoid the sight of Ricky Wilson's 20 foot high builder's crack on the video screens as he struggled into the crowd for a bit of surfing) to appreciate the 'audience furniture' around me. There was the usual dismal contingent of national flags, but also a great variety of other, less nationalistic and more fun stuff - an inflatable monkey and a Saddam Hussein doll, both on long poles and both of which, at different times, were seen desperately humping the leg of the life-size cardboard cut-out of Kylie. Elsewhere a giant inflatable brontosaurus bounced around, eventually making its lumbering way onto the stage. Near me, men with pigeons on sticks harassed unsuspecting punters by gently pecking them on the head or knocking off their hats
Then to the Guardian Lounge. After catching the last few minutes of a set by a weather beaten growly old man (who the stage listing informed me was known as 'Shuffle'), we took up an excellent position beside the stage to watch Emiliana Torrini. Ignoring the supposed 'Make Poverty History' moment at 4pm, the set started with the winsome Icelander singing a few of her laid back songs, and amiably chatting in between - it was during part of her patter that she came up with perhaps the quote of the festival - "I always wanted to be in a thrash metal band".
A few refreshments later and suddenly it was dark and my feet were stuck in the mud of the John Peel tent. Over on stage the Magic Numbers were having a cracking time, as was everyone watching them, despite the group looking like the Shire's in-house band. It was a captivating and uplifting gig and the Magic Numbers seemed genuinely overwhelmed and happy at their reception, and I could make out perma-grins through their excessive head hair.
My feet unplugged, Matt, Sally and I headed through the new Dance Village, an incredible place - the central path was lined with hundreds of flags and from either side the sound of six or seven dance stages converged. Lights flashed everywhere and large inflatable neon shapes sat in the sky. The huge dark masses in front of the stages could only be identified as people by the silhouettes of thousands of raised hands. Our destination, past the village, was the Other Stage, a strangely desolate place at the best of times, but tonight bisected by a sizeable lake and a couple of streams sourcing it. Razorlight motored through an accomplished, if oddly dull performance, after which we headed up to the Stone Circle.
The place was packed, the field already skewered with about a hundred large camping candles. A healthy bonfire blazed away in the middle of the stones while various instruments (mostly from the drum family) were played inexpertly by delirious hippies. And there we stayed. After a while, lying back on the ground I felt the cold of the earth spreading through my body. I remember thinking how lucky it was that the dead don't feel the cold and then deciding that, even though I wanted to stick around for the sunrise, it was a probably a good moment to leave.
Sunday
The sun returned, trying its best to harden the mud - and it did a good job. Moving around was notably less energy sapping than on Saturday, and there were actually places where I could indulge in one of my favourite festival pastimes - sitting/lying on the ground doing not very much.
A trip to the Lost Vagueness field was on the cards for Sunday, and we made our way towards the chapel of Love and Loathing, where Kate Moss and a frog like simpleton in the Emperor's New Clothes were supposed to have got 'married' the day before. Inside a horsey woman dressed up as a priest renewed the vows of a self-satisfied looking couple in a boxing ring. Feeling a bit irritated by the contrived 'wackiness' of it I went and sat outside to people watch. After a while I was moved on by the other less lazy members of the group and we decamped to the Jazz World stage, where, thanks to my deft queuing, I managed to pick up the last two bottles of perry from the perry bus. And so we lounged in the sunshine, gulping down the sweet pear juice. It was pleasantly uneventful - apart from the moment when I looked up to see a naked man crouched in front of me, covered in white paint and staring.
"Burrrrhhhhh" he whispered, before scampering off to disturb someone else.
A bit dazed from the perry and the naked ghost, I took another turn around the Green Fields with Matt, Claire and Sally. I felt I could loiter around there for ever - it's a lovely area, very relaxing - always with something unusual and diverting going on. We found another tent not powered by conventional electricity - this time there were no stringy cyclists frantically peddling: instead the three female violinists in tutus were benefiting from solar power.
Back to the Pyramid Stage for a performance by a dazed looking Brian Wilson, but it went down well in the afternoon sunshine. At one point, towards the end of the set, a tent tied to six multi-coloured helium balloons and bearing the Banksy tag disappeared into the sky. I wonder where it ended up.
And then Matt and I nipped over to the Other Stage to watch the overrated Rufus Wainwright drone through a number of dirgy songs, including one with his sister Martha. Maybe it was the site of Rufus Wainwright stripped to the waist, but most probably it was a heady mix of perry and sunshine that brought on the familiar feeling of sunstroke. On the way over to the Other Stage I had bought 3 bottles of water, all of which I gulped down. But as Matt and I left the Other Stage area, slagging off Wainwright, I didn't feel any better. By the time we reached the Tadpole Stage, the venue of Ms Rhodes's second performance of the festival, I was beginning to wonder if something in my head was haemorrhaging.
The Tadpole Stage wasn't as cosy as the Small World Stage, but it was as small and also the kind of place where people sat, rather than swayed, while watching whoever was on stage. It was a lot emptier than the Small World Stage had been and Matt and I sat down on the thin benches. I was feeling woozier and the pain in my head was getting more acute. I decided to bin my plans to see Bright Eyes after watching Lou and stood up to ask Matt if I could borrow his phone in order to let Claire know - she was in a tent elsewhere watching Tori Amos. As I stood a not entirely unexpected wave of nausea surged through me, and I grabbed the phone and rushed out of the tent, brushing past Lou Rhodes on her way in. Oh God, I hope she didn't see me throwing up three bottles of water and a cheese/spinach/mushroom crepe into the recycling bins.
Empty, I lurched back into the tent. We had been joined on the bench by a rather talkative fellow, also waiting for the ex-Lamb singer's performance. Chatting away to my friendly neighbour, in between swallowing mouthfuls of bile, I learnt that on Saturday he had bumped into Lou in the Tipi field and had a rather nice chat to her. I sulkily mentioned my my non-encounter and the way I was being eaten up inside by regret.
Again the set up took ages with various sound problems arising and the guy at the sound desk seemingly incapable of doing his job. And so, Matt had to, for the second time, leave before a note was played, keen as he was to catch the beginning of Bright Eyes. And that was a shame, because again the performance of Lou and her band was mesmerising - it was a shorter, slightly different playlist this time. She was also joined by a percussionist, not present at the Small World Stage, whose principle instrument appeared to be a black clay vase.
For her last song Louise Rhodes made us all stand up, and beckoned us closer to the very low stage. Ah, it was brilliant. My brain kindly let some naturally occurring happy chemicals chug around my body, muting the pain of my sunstroke, and I felt the mild euphoria that only a superlative live music experience can provoke.
Slowly making my way back to the tent I cursed my head and the fact the festival was nearly over. I could have stayed for days.
Monday
And that's it. Over again - no more Glastonbury until at least 2007. The tents swiftly came down, the seagulls that had been ominously circling for the past 24 hours made their move, descending on the litter strewn ground. And with more ease than ever before, via bus and train, I was back in London and asleep on my bed.
Overly keen, I arrived at Paddington with 40 minutes to spare, and spent the time sitting on my rucksack round the back of Burger King, contemplating the gradual concertina-ing of my spine. Carrying three tents plus other Glastonbury essentials from Clerkenwell to Paddington was already taking its toll. The atmosphere on the train was boisterous, carriages full of festival goers, who eventually spilled out into the sunshine bathing Castle Cary station and joined the queue for the free festival buses.
I found myself on an old coach, sat just behind the driver, a late middle-aged and affable man with a strong West Country accent. At one point, as the coach was trundling along the road, he left his post at the wheel to stroll across the vehicle and open the door ("for air") showing the kind of disregard for human life acquired only by ferrying charabancs of day-trippers around the country for forty years. Every now and again he'd bend the microphone down to his mouth to give his passengers news of the treats awaiting them on the farm, such as that, because of the hot weather, there was already a lot of nudity on the site -
"...and I mean nudity. There's going to be some burnt nipples tomorrow morning."
As if to underline the nipple theme, we turned a corner and the Glastonbury Tor hove into view. And then, to the left, the sprawling festival site unfolded, the sun glittering off the windscreens of hundreds of cars, the serpentine superfence shimmering in the haze.
Soon I was again stooping under the weight of the rucksack, staggering towards the campsite above the Pyramid Stage, sweat pouring off me. Already I was in need of a shower - unfortunately the nearest one of those was Monday afternoon. I didn't stop until I heard the buzzing of the power lines at which point I cast down the rucksack, pulled out the tents and started construction. There was a moment, hands full of indeterminate poles and awkwardly shaped canvas, when I wondered if really this was just a colossal waste of time, but suddenly the shells of three tents were there, pegged down and ready for the weekend. Meanwhile, I had spread the flysheet of one of the tents out to reserve an area for a fourth tent - being brought by Matt in the evening. I sat in my camping chair, watching over the space, like Greyfriars Bobby over the grave of his master, silently snarling at anyone who looked like encroaching on it. By the time Claire arrived onsite at about 6 in the evening, a Eurohike sponsored shanty town covered the hillside, an empty field six hours earlier. The space for the fourth tent was still there - but at what expense? I hadn't brought any suncream and Claire politely avoided mentioning the smell of burning flesh, as the skin of my arms and neck bubbled gently under the sun.
Matt arrived an hour or so later, and put up the tent intended for George and Rohan, turning up the next day to complete our little camp. Finally we had four tents (the others for Claire and me, Matt and Sally and a spare one) circling a small but adequate 'sitting around' area and I could relax - and as I did I realised the pain thundering around my head. Sunstroke - not so bad that I saw pink goblins scuttling down from the Stone Circle towards me - but painful and disorientating all the same. That was it - I escaped into my expertly erected tent for the evening.
Thursday
A day with nothing to do - but dozing sluglike in my luxurious sleeping bag wasn't an option. The unforgiving sun was turning the inside of the tent into a furnace, and we had to struggle outside after blearily pulling on clothes and poking in contact lenses. On wandering through the site I got the impression that most people had arrived - the place was packed, the dusty stall lined streets of the festival buzzed with people, the constant conveyor belt of the paths, a familiar feature of festivals, had begun.
At my insistence, Matt, Claire and I spent most of the time darting from shady area to shady area, since my burnt skin started to tingle the moment the sun's rays fell on it. We eventually took up refuge at the Avalon Stage, a blue marquee near the circus field. A good spot for people watching, we whiled away a few hours with a couple of bottles of perry. Pleasantly drunk, we resumed our wandering of the site, through the Tipi field and up into the Green Fields. In the Green Fields it was business as usual - one of the first sights that greeted us was a tree planting ceremony. A couple of hippies were in paroxysms of joy as earth was packed around the base of a small sapling. The intestinal belch of a didgeridoo and a child throwing confetti everywhere accompanied the spectacle. Eventually we found a shady corner of the Greenpeace Kids Field within which to doze off the effects of the perry.
The campsite was alive most of the evening, people sitting up and talking until 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, notably a group camped nearby who were yabbering away incessantly, a worthless stream of repetitive cretinous crap spewing from their diseased mouths. I quite enjoy sleepily eavesdropping on other people's conversations at festivals, but in this case, all I enjoyed was fantasising about bursting into the night, grabbing my mallet, tearing up all the pegs I could find and pitching a tent in their eyes.
Friday
By four in the morning, the campsite was quiet. Suddenly, from nowhere a strange wind coursed through the humid night, rippling the canvas, shaking the tents. I dozed off. I was woken by the clatter of heavy rain on the roof of the tent. There was a flash, then a few moments later deafening thunder crackled across the sky.
I retreated deeper inside the sleeping bag, waiting for the storm to move off. But the rain was unrelenting and the lightning got more frequent and violent, the thunder sounding like volleys of undisciplined artillery fire, increasing gradually in volume. At times the gap between the lightning and thunder grew longer, but not for long - the storm moved away from the valley only to circle back, returning with even more vehemence. I wondered if the deluge was focussed exclusively on the site, God finally deciding to kill all hippies.
At around 9am, I decided that I'd have to venture out. I pulled on jeans, trainers and a T-shirt, and with an umbrella headed into the storm. The rain continued to tumble down, heavy drops already accumulating into puddles, the hard earth unable to soak up the water. I splashed down the hill, past the Pyramid Stage. The flags aligning the path, that had flittered so colourfully the day before, were sticking limply to their poles.
At Joe Bananas, the famous blanket stall, business was brisk. I managed to grab a pair of size 11 wellies (a size too small, but inevitably "they only go up to 11") and a waterproof poncho - all of which set me back 30 quid. The prices at Glastonbury are remarkable - stall holders exploiting their captive audience. I don't think paying 4 pounds for a sausage in a bun is really in tune with the fair trade messages promoted incessantly elsewhere on the site. I headed back to the tent with my spoils, where I hid until the rain slowed to a light patter, and eventually, after a couple of deceptive lulls, stopped for good. Matt took up residence into the spare tent, apparently dissatisfied with the 'Indoor Rain' feature that came with his.
The music had been delayed for two hours. A beer tent had been struck by lightning (mmmm...electric beer). The site was crippled by power cuts. A hundred yards away from our tents, other campers found their temporary homes were pitched in the middle of a river - or otherwise discovered that these homes had already disappeared downstream. But the damage here was mild compared to the flooding at a campsite on the other side of the festival, where the tops of the tents peeked out from 4 feet of water.
Safe in my wellies, walking around the place was fascinating - there was shit everywhere. The paths were already past saving, deep with heavy sticky mud. Lakes had appeared, cutting off stalls while the garishly painted recycling bins bobbed around like debris from a ship wreck. Amongst the waterproofed wellied-up festival goers there were those painfully unprepared, shivering in their shorts and T-shirts, great clods of mud where their trainers used to be. And inevitably, the swimmers and divers were already out in force, covered from head to toe in sludge. If you ask me, it takes a considerable quantity of drugs to fling off your clothes and happily paddle around in what is essentially the excrement of thousands of strangers.
I popped into the Guardian Lounge - mainly to see what it was all about (sitting around on sofas with coffee and a copy of the paper) and caught the opening song of Brakes's set. The noise was a bit painful so, with Claire, I headed to the Pyramid Stage to watch The Zutons, who got the music proper off to an excellent start, although Claire didn't seem particularly willing to get involved in a discussion with me about whether or not Abi off The Zutons is fit.
After a few hours squelching here and there, and meeting up with Matt (who had been exiled to dry land - what was left of it - until Sally arrived with his boots) Sally, George and Rohan, I squelched about a bit more, but to the sound of The Killers who played a reassuringly familiar set, before Fat Zorro Jack White and his ex-wife Meg took the stage. The White Stripes were entertaining - in between messy and irritating bursts of noise and mini-tunes, they sounded great. However, I decided to trudge off before the end to find Lou Rhodes, and the others, less impressed by The White Stripes than me and emboldened by a few boxes of wine, decided to follow.
Up in the Small World Tent, far away from the heaving masses at the Pyramid Stage, Claire and I squeezed ourselves into a couple of seats (a.k.a the ground and a low table) next to a charcoal burning fire. On stage a refugee from the 1970s was leading a funky sounding band and playing jazz flute in between singing lines like:
"I want to leave, I want to leave, I want to leave the world of LSD, haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh."
The Small World stage was beautifully kitted out - red lanterns hung from the roof, their pleasant but muted glow meant the seated festival goers chatted in gentle semi-darkness, occasionally rising to get a hot drink from the bar at the back, or to let a man through to top up the coal on the fires. The others had disappeared - stuck in the mud and lost - but when they arrived half an hour later Lou Rhodes wasn't yet on stage, late for her half past midnight slot. When they left half an hour after that, the music still hadn't started. In the end, because of sound difficulties and a very slow set up, Lou and her band didn't appear until about 1:30am. But of course, naturally, inevitably, unsurprisingly, predictably (etc) it was worth the wait. Lou's new songs are in the vein of the Lamb lullabies, achingly beautiful, finely crafted and measured. Her voice is exquisite, aural treacle and I left the Small World Tent calm and happy. Claire left it fancying Lou Rhodes's double bassist.
It was the middle of the night. We strolled around the Green Fields a bit and poked our heads into random tents. In one, three of four people were sitting in the gloom watching a skinny bearded man playing the mandolin and singing about globalisation. The weak light pulsing out of the electric bulbs and the amplifier boosting the twanging of the mandolin were being powered by two men sitting astride a tandem, fixed to the ground. Their legs cycled continuously and the music was accompanied by the constant hiss of the turning wheels.
Eventually we headed back to the campsite through the quiet Green Fields, passing muffled pockets of sound - chanting in the distance, from the darkness somewhere near the path a guitar and elsewhere, the ubiquitous bongos. And then we were back in the centre of the festival, where the lights still blazed and people wandered, more aimlessly than before, looking for that one last unexpected discovery before they called it a night.
Saturday
For the first time ever, I found myself at the Pyramid Stage for the opening band of the day - Hayseed Dixie, who famously perform bluegrass covers of rock classics. Pushing their new album, A Hot Piece of Grass, their hillbilly front man uttered a refreshingly un-Glastonbury like question - "Can you feel the evil?". As the redneck joke got a little tired, we took another trip across the site, through the Leftfield Stage, the circus field and past the acoustic tent, where Morris Dancers jingled their way through the morning.
Back to the Pyramid Stage to watch an high-energy set from the Kaiser Chiefs, a band I really don't want to like, but can't help doing so. At one point I turned my head (wishing to avoid the sight of Ricky Wilson's 20 foot high builder's crack on the video screens as he struggled into the crowd for a bit of surfing) to appreciate the 'audience furniture' around me. There was the usual dismal contingent of national flags, but also a great variety of other, less nationalistic and more fun stuff - an inflatable monkey and a Saddam Hussein doll, both on long poles and both of which, at different times, were seen desperately humping the leg of the life-size cardboard cut-out of Kylie. Elsewhere a giant inflatable brontosaurus bounced around, eventually making its lumbering way onto the stage. Near me, men with pigeons on sticks harassed unsuspecting punters by gently pecking them on the head or knocking off their hats
Then to the Guardian Lounge. After catching the last few minutes of a set by a weather beaten growly old man (who the stage listing informed me was known as 'Shuffle'), we took up an excellent position beside the stage to watch Emiliana Torrini. Ignoring the supposed 'Make Poverty History' moment at 4pm, the set started with the winsome Icelander singing a few of her laid back songs, and amiably chatting in between - it was during part of her patter that she came up with perhaps the quote of the festival - "I always wanted to be in a thrash metal band".
A few refreshments later and suddenly it was dark and my feet were stuck in the mud of the John Peel tent. Over on stage the Magic Numbers were having a cracking time, as was everyone watching them, despite the group looking like the Shire's in-house band. It was a captivating and uplifting gig and the Magic Numbers seemed genuinely overwhelmed and happy at their reception, and I could make out perma-grins through their excessive head hair.
My feet unplugged, Matt, Sally and I headed through the new Dance Village, an incredible place - the central path was lined with hundreds of flags and from either side the sound of six or seven dance stages converged. Lights flashed everywhere and large inflatable neon shapes sat in the sky. The huge dark masses in front of the stages could only be identified as people by the silhouettes of thousands of raised hands. Our destination, past the village, was the Other Stage, a strangely desolate place at the best of times, but tonight bisected by a sizeable lake and a couple of streams sourcing it. Razorlight motored through an accomplished, if oddly dull performance, after which we headed up to the Stone Circle.
The place was packed, the field already skewered with about a hundred large camping candles. A healthy bonfire blazed away in the middle of the stones while various instruments (mostly from the drum family) were played inexpertly by delirious hippies. And there we stayed. After a while, lying back on the ground I felt the cold of the earth spreading through my body. I remember thinking how lucky it was that the dead don't feel the cold and then deciding that, even though I wanted to stick around for the sunrise, it was a probably a good moment to leave.
Sunday
The sun returned, trying its best to harden the mud - and it did a good job. Moving around was notably less energy sapping than on Saturday, and there were actually places where I could indulge in one of my favourite festival pastimes - sitting/lying on the ground doing not very much.
A trip to the Lost Vagueness field was on the cards for Sunday, and we made our way towards the chapel of Love and Loathing, where Kate Moss and a frog like simpleton in the Emperor's New Clothes were supposed to have got 'married' the day before. Inside a horsey woman dressed up as a priest renewed the vows of a self-satisfied looking couple in a boxing ring. Feeling a bit irritated by the contrived 'wackiness' of it I went and sat outside to people watch. After a while I was moved on by the other less lazy members of the group and we decamped to the Jazz World stage, where, thanks to my deft queuing, I managed to pick up the last two bottles of perry from the perry bus. And so we lounged in the sunshine, gulping down the sweet pear juice. It was pleasantly uneventful - apart from the moment when I looked up to see a naked man crouched in front of me, covered in white paint and staring.
"Burrrrhhhhh" he whispered, before scampering off to disturb someone else.
A bit dazed from the perry and the naked ghost, I took another turn around the Green Fields with Matt, Claire and Sally. I felt I could loiter around there for ever - it's a lovely area, very relaxing - always with something unusual and diverting going on. We found another tent not powered by conventional electricity - this time there were no stringy cyclists frantically peddling: instead the three female violinists in tutus were benefiting from solar power.
Back to the Pyramid Stage for a performance by a dazed looking Brian Wilson, but it went down well in the afternoon sunshine. At one point, towards the end of the set, a tent tied to six multi-coloured helium balloons and bearing the Banksy tag disappeared into the sky. I wonder where it ended up.
And then Matt and I nipped over to the Other Stage to watch the overrated Rufus Wainwright drone through a number of dirgy songs, including one with his sister Martha. Maybe it was the site of Rufus Wainwright stripped to the waist, but most probably it was a heady mix of perry and sunshine that brought on the familiar feeling of sunstroke. On the way over to the Other Stage I had bought 3 bottles of water, all of which I gulped down. But as Matt and I left the Other Stage area, slagging off Wainwright, I didn't feel any better. By the time we reached the Tadpole Stage, the venue of Ms Rhodes's second performance of the festival, I was beginning to wonder if something in my head was haemorrhaging.
The Tadpole Stage wasn't as cosy as the Small World Stage, but it was as small and also the kind of place where people sat, rather than swayed, while watching whoever was on stage. It was a lot emptier than the Small World Stage had been and Matt and I sat down on the thin benches. I was feeling woozier and the pain in my head was getting more acute. I decided to bin my plans to see Bright Eyes after watching Lou and stood up to ask Matt if I could borrow his phone in order to let Claire know - she was in a tent elsewhere watching Tori Amos. As I stood a not entirely unexpected wave of nausea surged through me, and I grabbed the phone and rushed out of the tent, brushing past Lou Rhodes on her way in. Oh God, I hope she didn't see me throwing up three bottles of water and a cheese/spinach/mushroom crepe into the recycling bins.
Empty, I lurched back into the tent. We had been joined on the bench by a rather talkative fellow, also waiting for the ex-Lamb singer's performance. Chatting away to my friendly neighbour, in between swallowing mouthfuls of bile, I learnt that on Saturday he had bumped into Lou in the Tipi field and had a rather nice chat to her. I sulkily mentioned my my non-encounter and the way I was being eaten up inside by regret.
Again the set up took ages with various sound problems arising and the guy at the sound desk seemingly incapable of doing his job. And so, Matt had to, for the second time, leave before a note was played, keen as he was to catch the beginning of Bright Eyes. And that was a shame, because again the performance of Lou and her band was mesmerising - it was a shorter, slightly different playlist this time. She was also joined by a percussionist, not present at the Small World Stage, whose principle instrument appeared to be a black clay vase.
For her last song Louise Rhodes made us all stand up, and beckoned us closer to the very low stage. Ah, it was brilliant. My brain kindly let some naturally occurring happy chemicals chug around my body, muting the pain of my sunstroke, and I felt the mild euphoria that only a superlative live music experience can provoke.
Slowly making my way back to the tent I cursed my head and the fact the festival was nearly over. I could have stayed for days.
Monday
And that's it. Over again - no more Glastonbury until at least 2007. The tents swiftly came down, the seagulls that had been ominously circling for the past 24 hours made their move, descending on the litter strewn ground. And with more ease than ever before, via bus and train, I was back in London and asleep on my bed.
Clerkenwell Breaking & Entering (5 April 2005)
It appears that hauling myself out of bed and trudging across to my office for 8.45 on Sunday morning was worth it. Despite spending the whole of Saturday at a stylishly fun wedding and despite loathing the sight of my place of work on weekdays, I was sat at my desk, 6 internet windows open on my monitor, and clicking away on the refresh button by the time the more devout were adjusting their hats and tottering to church.
It took about an hour and a half, but I managed to secure a couple of Glastonbury tickets and so will be heading to Somerset once again in late June - unless some dreadful work-related turn of events turns me into even more of a hate filled automaton. No, this particular professional life isn't going well. I'm thinking of becoming a babysitter or bramblepicker.
Delightfully, the BBC included my half-baked comments (amongst others) about Glastonbury "ticket pain" in their hastily written article of yesterday.
Meanwhile, the quiet corner of Clerkenwell in to which I escape after a day's drudgery appears to have been hit by a crime wave. Drive-by shootings, riots, arson and loitering crack-dealers have turned my street into a no-go area akin to the suburbs of Baghdad.
That's not exactly true. My block of flats nestles in between new media companies, galleries and a couple of painfully self-obsessed drinking establishments. As a result the street it's on tends to be a rather quiet back road. But the other evening, while I was sitting at the table writing thank you letters for Christmas presents (a tad late), I heard a loud crashing. Looking out of the window I watched a shadowy figure scamper through the hole he had just made in a production company's glass front door. Being a trendy media company, the whole office was glass fronted, and while I called the police, I watched him trot upstairs and go for a flat screen TV and DVD player mounted on the wall. However, a few other people in the flats had heard the commotion, and the burglar's accomplice, perching on a moped in the street, looked around to see windows of morally outraged residents, phones clamped to their ears. The pair puttered off on their moped empty-handed.
It was fairly exciting but soon calm returned to the neighbourhood. Or so I thought - my flatmate reports being woken regularly by young scoundrels attempting to steal mopeds parked on the street outside. To be honest, since the daring attempted heist over the road, I haven't noticed anything amiss, but it seems that soon I'll have to dodge the flying bullets and bricks as gangs of media types crack their thick-rimmed glasses and tear their low-slung jeans in disputes over video-streaming and fully outsourced IT consulting.
It took about an hour and a half, but I managed to secure a couple of Glastonbury tickets and so will be heading to Somerset once again in late June - unless some dreadful work-related turn of events turns me into even more of a hate filled automaton. No, this particular professional life isn't going well. I'm thinking of becoming a babysitter or bramblepicker.
Delightfully, the BBC included my half-baked comments (amongst others) about Glastonbury "ticket pain" in their hastily written article of yesterday.
Meanwhile, the quiet corner of Clerkenwell in to which I escape after a day's drudgery appears to have been hit by a crime wave. Drive-by shootings, riots, arson and loitering crack-dealers have turned my street into a no-go area akin to the suburbs of Baghdad.
That's not exactly true. My block of flats nestles in between new media companies, galleries and a couple of painfully self-obsessed drinking establishments. As a result the street it's on tends to be a rather quiet back road. But the other evening, while I was sitting at the table writing thank you letters for Christmas presents (a tad late), I heard a loud crashing. Looking out of the window I watched a shadowy figure scamper through the hole he had just made in a production company's glass front door. Being a trendy media company, the whole office was glass fronted, and while I called the police, I watched him trot upstairs and go for a flat screen TV and DVD player mounted on the wall. However, a few other people in the flats had heard the commotion, and the burglar's accomplice, perching on a moped in the street, looked around to see windows of morally outraged residents, phones clamped to their ears. The pair puttered off on their moped empty-handed.
It was fairly exciting but soon calm returned to the neighbourhood. Or so I thought - my flatmate reports being woken regularly by young scoundrels attempting to steal mopeds parked on the street outside. To be honest, since the daring attempted heist over the road, I haven't noticed anything amiss, but it seems that soon I'll have to dodge the flying bullets and bricks as gangs of media types crack their thick-rimmed glasses and tear their low-slung jeans in disputes over video-streaming and fully outsourced IT consulting.
Comedy in aid of Unicef (8 February 2005)
No, look, I know I've been shit, but I've been very busy you see, what with work and Christmas and going and doing things. Lots of things, which I should have blogged, but didn't. These include:
Xfm's Winter Wonderland;
Xfm's First Friday club night at the Islington Academy;
The Producers;
The Tsunami benefit gig in the Millennium Stadium;
Ian McEwan in conversation and reading from his new novel on the South Bank;
Sunday night improvisation at the Comedy Store; and
Skiing in Champoluc, Italy.
But in between flitting to and from these dazzling events, I've been mostly crouched behind a desk, fingers tapping a yellowing keyboard, back arching into permanent quasimodoism, skin sweating in fear of doing something wrong and brain spasming with horror at the fact I chose this profession: but that's earning a living for you. I only mention it as an excuse for not posting more regularly - that and the fact that I don't own a computer so anything I do post has to be stealthily written and posted during working hours.
Of course, the rolling list of films to the right might suggest that I have had some leisure time: why waste two hours of my life watching 'How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days' when I could be describing Ian McEwan's calm intellect in the face of nonsense questions from an audience desperate to impress, or delineating the beauty of gently carving a path down a piste sprinkled with powder snow? A good question, and one I intend to avoid answering, save to say that if I ever run into Kate Hudson, Matthew McConaughey or Donald Petrie I'd like to sit them down for 120 minutes and stab them repeatedly in the cerebral cortex with a rusty fork and see how they like it.
In an attempt to stop this becoming a blog just for the sake of it, I did do something noteworthy on Sunday night - Claire and I went to 'Funny Money', a comedy night held in support of Unicef.
Some of the better-known names were Sean Lock, Jeremy Hardy, Adam Buxton, Mackenzie Crook, Jimmy Carr (all brilliantly accomplished) and Arthur Smith (utter dross). These and others motored through 10 minute acts which were interspersed by the compares, Justin Lee Collins and Fearne Cotton. Such a shame. Without these two witless chancers each comedian could have got a few minutes more and I could have avoided squirming with embarrassment at this modern day Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox. They failed to engage with each other or the audience at any level. Justin Lee Collins could have got away with it if he were on his own, despite his limited repertoire of gay 'jokes' and saying 'fuck' a lot. As it was, Fearne Cotton stood at his elbow looking awkward and making redundant comments, her eyes shimmering with the fear of doing something uncool: exactly the same shabby performance she turned in at the tsunami gig - where she actually came off looking semi-professional, next to the full-time cretin Edith Bowman. So it was a bit of luck that the comedy was first class, and made for a fun evening.
Xfm's Winter Wonderland;
Xfm's First Friday club night at the Islington Academy;
The Producers;
The Tsunami benefit gig in the Millennium Stadium;
Ian McEwan in conversation and reading from his new novel on the South Bank;
Sunday night improvisation at the Comedy Store; and
Skiing in Champoluc, Italy.
But in between flitting to and from these dazzling events, I've been mostly crouched behind a desk, fingers tapping a yellowing keyboard, back arching into permanent quasimodoism, skin sweating in fear of doing something wrong and brain spasming with horror at the fact I chose this profession: but that's earning a living for you. I only mention it as an excuse for not posting more regularly - that and the fact that I don't own a computer so anything I do post has to be stealthily written and posted during working hours.
Of course, the rolling list of films to the right might suggest that I have had some leisure time: why waste two hours of my life watching 'How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days' when I could be describing Ian McEwan's calm intellect in the face of nonsense questions from an audience desperate to impress, or delineating the beauty of gently carving a path down a piste sprinkled with powder snow? A good question, and one I intend to avoid answering, save to say that if I ever run into Kate Hudson, Matthew McConaughey or Donald Petrie I'd like to sit them down for 120 minutes and stab them repeatedly in the cerebral cortex with a rusty fork and see how they like it.
In an attempt to stop this becoming a blog just for the sake of it, I did do something noteworthy on Sunday night - Claire and I went to 'Funny Money', a comedy night held in support of Unicef.
Some of the better-known names were Sean Lock, Jeremy Hardy, Adam Buxton, Mackenzie Crook, Jimmy Carr (all brilliantly accomplished) and Arthur Smith (utter dross). These and others motored through 10 minute acts which were interspersed by the compares, Justin Lee Collins and Fearne Cotton. Such a shame. Without these two witless chancers each comedian could have got a few minutes more and I could have avoided squirming with embarrassment at this modern day Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox. They failed to engage with each other or the audience at any level. Justin Lee Collins could have got away with it if he were on his own, despite his limited repertoire of gay 'jokes' and saying 'fuck' a lot. As it was, Fearne Cotton stood at his elbow looking awkward and making redundant comments, her eyes shimmering with the fear of doing something uncool: exactly the same shabby performance she turned in at the tsunami gig - where she actually came off looking semi-professional, next to the full-time cretin Edith Bowman. So it was a bit of luck that the comedy was first class, and made for a fun evening.
Faber and Faber Anniversary Reading (29 November 2004)
Days roll on, and pass without me noticing. I can imagine myself waking with a start early one morning, shuffling to the bathroom and standing in front of the mirror, examining my withered blotched face in horror. I'm in old age, and the years have quietly passed, politely adding up without complaint. What's provoked this is that it's been over 6 weeks since I got back from East Asia - longer than I was away, but I wouldn't notice this unless I had a calendar in front of me, because days in London just drift past, mainly as a rainy parade of computer screens and concrete, scowls and abuse.
Don't get me wrong - it's hardly the worst place in the world to live - I've seen Pyongyang and the slums of Nairobi. And what would the citizens of Falluja or Baghdad give to be anywhere but there? But I can't help but persist in my view of London - a claustrophobic and oppressive sewer of exhaust fumes, delays and selfishness. For me, the stickers on the tube train windows supporting the farcical bid for the 2012 Olympics sum up the city's shambolic indifference to efficiency, standards of living and social values. It's just a little thing, but the stickers can't be viewed for the most part on the tube. They are see-through, the text on them is in black - so when you're in the darkness of a tunnel (and on the London Underground you normally are, often motionless) they serve no purpose at all. Someone's been paid lots of money to come up with them, the job has been half-heartedly done, no-one's thought it through, and no-one really cares.
But away with the self-indulgent wankery - surely I've been doing some worthwhile things? As seen below, I've spent an evening with Sir Roger Moore - I've also been to see him read Kipling at the British Library. I've enjoyed Bill Bailey's fantastic Part Troll, been pleasantly surprised by The Thrills' set at Brixton Academy and vaguely disappointed by the Gwen and Augustus John exhibition at Tate Britain. And along with its beautiful districts (all too expensive to live in) and its acres of parkland, the diversity and accessibility of art and culture is a seriously redeeming feature of London.
And so it was that I turned up at the Queen Elizabeth Hall the other day to hear some authors reading their work. Laila had a spare ticket, so I said I'd go along, without knowing who I was going to see. Noticing 'Faber & Faber's 75th Anniversary' imprinted on the ticket was intriguing, but I still didn't expect the startlingly impressive line-up. The whole thing was MCed by Andrew O'Hagen, who fumbled through his opening speech before welcoming PD James onto the stage. In a 1930's continuity announcer's voice she read a forgettable scene from a forgettable murder novel, and soon O'Hagen was back, introducing the next reader.
An Asian man, in black jeans and black t-shirt, with floppy centre-parted hair lolloped to the podium and read from his most famous work. Despite appearances, he wasn't a physics student reading from a dissertation, but Kazuo Ishiguro reading from The Remains of the Day. His reading was slightly stilted, but it didn't detract from the excellent material - although the audience seemed a little underwhelmed. Conversely, they opened up to Alan Bennett who was on next, snorting with laughter and love at his cuddly English ways. Amongst other things, Bennett read a compelling passage from The History Boys, which turned from an analysis of Hardy's Drummer Hodge into an easy-going muse on the nature of reading.
After the interval, literature's most famous transsexual took to the stage (assuming Nadia Almada's autobiography, Chop and Change, has yet to be published). Jan Morris was charming and self-deprecating. She read from her poetic and thoughtful books on Trieste and Venice, all the time with her hand against her face, apart from when making witty asides. Next Hanif Kureishi read from the Buddha of Suburbia, before the Nobel prize winner himself, Seamus Heaney, was wheeled out to gruffly mutter through his poems (including the obligatory Digging), which he did excellently. What struck me about all the readers was their lack of arrogance and pride. They are all hugely successful (whether commercially or critically) authors, but they all seemed down-to-earth and personable. I wondered if it would be the same if the evening had presented a handful of famous actors or artists.
Fighting through the scrum for signed books after the event, I realised that evenings like this make London worthwhile, even for a 'miserable, moody old shit' like me (to quote one of my 'friends'). At least the streets can be escaped, and the exhausted city-dweller can find refuge in a cinema or theatre, at a gig venue or in a gallery. Given the buses that arrive with the regularity of a solar eclipse, the elusive 'for hire' taxis and the feckless underground system, the only problem is getting there.
Don't get me wrong - it's hardly the worst place in the world to live - I've seen Pyongyang and the slums of Nairobi. And what would the citizens of Falluja or Baghdad give to be anywhere but there? But I can't help but persist in my view of London - a claustrophobic and oppressive sewer of exhaust fumes, delays and selfishness. For me, the stickers on the tube train windows supporting the farcical bid for the 2012 Olympics sum up the city's shambolic indifference to efficiency, standards of living and social values. It's just a little thing, but the stickers can't be viewed for the most part on the tube. They are see-through, the text on them is in black - so when you're in the darkness of a tunnel (and on the London Underground you normally are, often motionless) they serve no purpose at all. Someone's been paid lots of money to come up with them, the job has been half-heartedly done, no-one's thought it through, and no-one really cares.
But away with the self-indulgent wankery - surely I've been doing some worthwhile things? As seen below, I've spent an evening with Sir Roger Moore - I've also been to see him read Kipling at the British Library. I've enjoyed Bill Bailey's fantastic Part Troll, been pleasantly surprised by The Thrills' set at Brixton Academy and vaguely disappointed by the Gwen and Augustus John exhibition at Tate Britain. And along with its beautiful districts (all too expensive to live in) and its acres of parkland, the diversity and accessibility of art and culture is a seriously redeeming feature of London.
And so it was that I turned up at the Queen Elizabeth Hall the other day to hear some authors reading their work. Laila had a spare ticket, so I said I'd go along, without knowing who I was going to see. Noticing 'Faber & Faber's 75th Anniversary' imprinted on the ticket was intriguing, but I still didn't expect the startlingly impressive line-up. The whole thing was MCed by Andrew O'Hagen, who fumbled through his opening speech before welcoming PD James onto the stage. In a 1930's continuity announcer's voice she read a forgettable scene from a forgettable murder novel, and soon O'Hagen was back, introducing the next reader.
An Asian man, in black jeans and black t-shirt, with floppy centre-parted hair lolloped to the podium and read from his most famous work. Despite appearances, he wasn't a physics student reading from a dissertation, but Kazuo Ishiguro reading from The Remains of the Day. His reading was slightly stilted, but it didn't detract from the excellent material - although the audience seemed a little underwhelmed. Conversely, they opened up to Alan Bennett who was on next, snorting with laughter and love at his cuddly English ways. Amongst other things, Bennett read a compelling passage from The History Boys, which turned from an analysis of Hardy's Drummer Hodge into an easy-going muse on the nature of reading.
After the interval, literature's most famous transsexual took to the stage (assuming Nadia Almada's autobiography, Chop and Change, has yet to be published). Jan Morris was charming and self-deprecating. She read from her poetic and thoughtful books on Trieste and Venice, all the time with her hand against her face, apart from when making witty asides. Next Hanif Kureishi read from the Buddha of Suburbia, before the Nobel prize winner himself, Seamus Heaney, was wheeled out to gruffly mutter through his poems (including the obligatory Digging), which he did excellently. What struck me about all the readers was their lack of arrogance and pride. They are all hugely successful (whether commercially or critically) authors, but they all seemed down-to-earth and personable. I wondered if it would be the same if the evening had presented a handful of famous actors or artists.
Fighting through the scrum for signed books after the event, I realised that evenings like this make London worthwhile, even for a 'miserable, moody old shit' like me (to quote one of my 'friends'). At least the streets can be escaped, and the exhausted city-dweller can find refuge in a cinema or theatre, at a gig venue or in a gallery. Given the buses that arrive with the regularity of a solar eclipse, the elusive 'for hire' taxis and the feckless underground system, the only problem is getting there.
29 October 2004
An Evening with Sir Roger Moore (22 October 2004)
Last Sunday I was absent-mindedly flicking through the pages of the Barbican's cinema program for October - I don't live far from the concrete fortress, and have a made a resolution to make more use of it. I was slightly disappointed that I had missed 'Travels in Greeneland', a season of films based on novels or screenplays by Graham Greene, and turned over the page to find out what seasons were currently running. A Roger Moore season.
My excited fingers fumbled over the keys, but I eventually managed to phone the box office. Unsurprisingly, all tickets for 'An Evening with Roger Moore', in which a film was to be shown followed by an interview with the man himself, were sold out. I despondently booked a couple of tickets for a showing of The Spy Who Loved Me and consoled myself with the thought that there was no way I could have acted earlier to get tickets. When they were freely available, I was probably still cooped up in North Korea, where I imagine they haven't even heard of Lord Rogerson of Mooreshire - although my guide there was aware of the North Korea element in Die Another Day, despite not having seen the film.
I didn't give up. Over the next few days I pestered the box office for returns, and e-mailed the marketing department at work to see if they could get any tickets. Eventually, Leo and I decided to simply head down to Cinema 1 on Thursday evening and hope that there would be some no-shows. But then, yesterday afternoon my phone rang. It was the woman from marketing. She'd come up with the goods - plus they were press tickets, so I didn't even have to pay.
The evening started with a showing of The Man Who Haunted Himself, a psychological thriller from 1970. Roger Moore plays an uptight City gent, who is involved in a car accident, and briefly dies on the operating table before being resuscitated. Once he's up and about again strange things start to happen - he is reminded of events and conversations he's sure he hasn't experienced, he is charged with business deals and negotiations he doesn't recall and a beautiful photographer swears blind that he is having an affair with her - sadly for Roger he can't even remember any details of this. Either he's going mad or there's a doppelganger on the loose. It's an engaging film, shot through with some fascinating footage of London in the early '70s. Roger and a debonair moustache turn in an impressive performance, which should silence those detractors who say he can't act.
A recent article contains his rather touching account of that performance:
When asked about the film nowadays, I always reflect that it was one of the few times I was allowed to act. It's a terrible admission from someone who has made a living from walking in front of cameras. Though, in my defence, I'd previously been cast in roles that required a relatively straightforward approach, either as a romantic lead, heroic lead - or just holding a spear, as I did in my first movie. I'd never been dramatically stretched, as they say.
The credits rolled, the lights came up and Roger entered the auditorium. He walked past my seat, down the stairs and on to the stage where he chatted to his biographer, Gareth Owen, for an hour or so, before the audience were invited to ask questions. Sadly I wasn't given the opportunity to ask any of the array of questions I had for him (What was it like working with the Richards Burton and Harris? Are you still interested in animation and cartooning? What do you think of John Sessions's depiction of you in Stella Street And, (after reciting some specific lines from Octopussy) what do you think of my impression of you?) I also couldn't thank him for escorting me around the Forbidden City last month. Some of the questions that were asked were well presented and interesting. Others, including one asked by the obligatory stalker (not me), were a complete waste of time and were along the lines of 'You once turned on the illuminations in Morecambe in 1974, do you remember a small boy who looked at you a bit funny?' Morons.
So he chatted amiably for another hour or so, about his work for UNICEF, Bond, his on-stage collapse and told and re-told countless anecdotes about his mostly dead actor friends. He came across as a warm and genial man, genuinely self-deprecating and surprisingly down-to-earth. For a 77 year old he has plenty of energy and enthusiasm and took every question, moronic or otherwise, with good humour and charm. It was an excellent evening and I was very lucky to get tickets. All being well I'm off to see him read Kipling at the British Library next week as well.
My excited fingers fumbled over the keys, but I eventually managed to phone the box office. Unsurprisingly, all tickets for 'An Evening with Roger Moore', in which a film was to be shown followed by an interview with the man himself, were sold out. I despondently booked a couple of tickets for a showing of The Spy Who Loved Me and consoled myself with the thought that there was no way I could have acted earlier to get tickets. When they were freely available, I was probably still cooped up in North Korea, where I imagine they haven't even heard of Lord Rogerson of Mooreshire - although my guide there was aware of the North Korea element in Die Another Day, despite not having seen the film.
I didn't give up. Over the next few days I pestered the box office for returns, and e-mailed the marketing department at work to see if they could get any tickets. Eventually, Leo and I decided to simply head down to Cinema 1 on Thursday evening and hope that there would be some no-shows. But then, yesterday afternoon my phone rang. It was the woman from marketing. She'd come up with the goods - plus they were press tickets, so I didn't even have to pay.
The evening started with a showing of The Man Who Haunted Himself, a psychological thriller from 1970. Roger Moore plays an uptight City gent, who is involved in a car accident, and briefly dies on the operating table before being resuscitated. Once he's up and about again strange things start to happen - he is reminded of events and conversations he's sure he hasn't experienced, he is charged with business deals and negotiations he doesn't recall and a beautiful photographer swears blind that he is having an affair with her - sadly for Roger he can't even remember any details of this. Either he's going mad or there's a doppelganger on the loose. It's an engaging film, shot through with some fascinating footage of London in the early '70s. Roger and a debonair moustache turn in an impressive performance, which should silence those detractors who say he can't act.
A recent article contains his rather touching account of that performance:
When asked about the film nowadays, I always reflect that it was one of the few times I was allowed to act. It's a terrible admission from someone who has made a living from walking in front of cameras. Though, in my defence, I'd previously been cast in roles that required a relatively straightforward approach, either as a romantic lead, heroic lead - or just holding a spear, as I did in my first movie. I'd never been dramatically stretched, as they say.
The credits rolled, the lights came up and Roger entered the auditorium. He walked past my seat, down the stairs and on to the stage where he chatted to his biographer, Gareth Owen, for an hour or so, before the audience were invited to ask questions. Sadly I wasn't given the opportunity to ask any of the array of questions I had for him (What was it like working with the Richards Burton and Harris? Are you still interested in animation and cartooning? What do you think of John Sessions's depiction of you in Stella Street And, (after reciting some specific lines from Octopussy) what do you think of my impression of you?) I also couldn't thank him for escorting me around the Forbidden City last month. Some of the questions that were asked were well presented and interesting. Others, including one asked by the obligatory stalker (not me), were a complete waste of time and were along the lines of 'You once turned on the illuminations in Morecambe in 1974, do you remember a small boy who looked at you a bit funny?' Morons.
So he chatted amiably for another hour or so, about his work for UNICEF, Bond, his on-stage collapse and told and re-told countless anecdotes about his mostly dead actor friends. He came across as a warm and genial man, genuinely self-deprecating and surprisingly down-to-earth. For a 77 year old he has plenty of energy and enthusiasm and took every question, moronic or otherwise, with good humour and charm. It was an excellent evening and I was very lucky to get tickets. All being well I'm off to see him read Kipling at the British Library next week as well.
Bicycle Clip Time (24 August 2004)
I often enjoy sitting down to watch the odd 'Horror' film, but the reason I haven't rambled on about this vast genre of film before is that I find it's difficult to accurately analyse it, define the various sub-categories within it, and single out the films within the genre that find me squirming in fear, where, in addition to the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, those on my face start prickling and a genuine chill runs through me.
A recent, a slightly peculiar study at King's College London seems a good place to start. It uses a mathematical formula to decide that The Shining is the perfect scary movie. The formula concentrates on three main areas: suspense, realism and gore. Although I think The Shining is a brilliantly creepy film, the inadequacy of those three 'key' elements highlights the fact that the genre of Horror gathers together three or four fairly diverse classes of film, meaning that unsettling and frightening films like Rosemary's Baby or The Wicker Man sit in the Horror section of Blockbuster next to vaguely boring novelty films like The Sixth Sense (or would if Blockbuster bothered to stock any films over 5 minutes old).
As far as I can make out there are four loose sub-categories of Horror film - please forgive the slightly random titles for them, as well as the extremely trivial and self-indulgent exercise of describing them.
1. Spooky: These are films which usually involve a supernatural element, and generally terrify through more subtle means than other types of Horror. Fleeting glimpses of things that should remain unseen and discomforting noises provide the fear, rather than gallons of blood/brains/blood and brains. The Shining is in this class. While a complete nutbar chasing his screaming wife and son around a maze with an axe isn't exactly subtle, and the tidal wave of blood that crashes out of the lift contradicts my definition of this type of film, the majority of The Shining, with its oppressive atmosphere of impending disaster, the child's rasping 'Redrum' and the various unexpected beings rattling around in the hotel, sits quite neatly in this sub-category.
A special mention has to go to the BBC's early '90s stab at this genre - the television play Ghostwatch, which scared the hell out of me at the time, provoked a rash of viewer complaints, prompted one suicide and has never been repeated.
2. Terror: It could be argued that this is a catch-all class, but I think it includes those films that, while not being Slasher or Shocker films are too explicit to be merely Spooky. I think most Zombie films, from Night of the Living Dead to 28 Days Later can be included here, as well as most films featuring odd homocidal creatures, such as Aliens (but not Alien, more of a Spooky film) along with the Hammer House of Horror productions and their like. I also think the more gruesome Horror films, often referred to as 'exploitation' films belong here, such as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Last House on the Left and Cannibal Holocaust - the last of these meriting a name check because it retains the title of The Most Disturbing Film I Have Ever Seen.
3. Slasher: Clearly, the slightly dodgy Jason, Freddie, and Halloween films and all their inferior imitators.
4. Shocker: The twattish little brother of Slasher films, these seem to trade on no more than simply shocking the audience - Final Destination, I Know What You Did Last Summer and so on.
So, after pompously defining the Horror genre, here's a list of, in my opinion, the best Horror films around. They seem to come from the Spooky or Terror categories, which I suppose are the ones I find the most 'shit-yer-pants-scary'. In no particular order:
1. Don't Look Now: Set mostly in gloomy decaying Venice, this film creates a constant understated menace that bubbles under the suface for much of the time and only manifests itself visually at the startling climax. Brilliantly subtle Horror film, with the added bonus of wondering whether Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie really did have sex.
2. The Ju-On films: I've only seen two of these (out of four) but I choose them rather than any of the other dazzlingly terrifying Japanese films because they seem to bring together all the elements of, for example, Ringu and Dark Water, and unremittingly assault the viewer with the result - a steady succession of eldritch images and deeply unnerving sound effects.
3. The Others: Although not as immediately scary as many other films, and despite its slightly gimmicky twist, the brooding mansion enveloped by perpetual fog, the constant unease and tension within that mansion and the vaguely threatening unseen presences make this an accomplished and stylish Horror film.
4. The Eye: Another one from the far east, this time Hong Kong. A blind woman gets a corneal transplant and as a result can see for almost the first time in her life - but naturally she can make out certain things other people, with their home-grown organs, can't. It's enough to make me think that, even if I was close to death on an operating table and the surgeon was about to perform a life-saving transplant operation, I would insist on seeing evidence that my new body part hadn't once belonged to a feared village outcast, or been dug up in a Native American burial ground, before I consented to the procedure.
5. The Omen: A big budget '70s studio film - and an effortlessly effective Horror film. I once knew someone who watched this when he was 13, and went to bed afterwards, almost paralysed with fear. Waking from a nightmare a few hours later he scrambled out of his bedroom into the long corridor outside, and saw the disembodied head of the impaled priest come floating towards him, prompting him to run screaming around the house. No, it wasn't me - I'd have just thought it was Dr. Who.
A recent, a slightly peculiar study at King's College London seems a good place to start. It uses a mathematical formula to decide that The Shining is the perfect scary movie. The formula concentrates on three main areas: suspense, realism and gore. Although I think The Shining is a brilliantly creepy film, the inadequacy of those three 'key' elements highlights the fact that the genre of Horror gathers together three or four fairly diverse classes of film, meaning that unsettling and frightening films like Rosemary's Baby or The Wicker Man sit in the Horror section of Blockbuster next to vaguely boring novelty films like The Sixth Sense (or would if Blockbuster bothered to stock any films over 5 minutes old).
As far as I can make out there are four loose sub-categories of Horror film - please forgive the slightly random titles for them, as well as the extremely trivial and self-indulgent exercise of describing them.
1. Spooky: These are films which usually involve a supernatural element, and generally terrify through more subtle means than other types of Horror. Fleeting glimpses of things that should remain unseen and discomforting noises provide the fear, rather than gallons of blood/brains/blood and brains. The Shining is in this class. While a complete nutbar chasing his screaming wife and son around a maze with an axe isn't exactly subtle, and the tidal wave of blood that crashes out of the lift contradicts my definition of this type of film, the majority of The Shining, with its oppressive atmosphere of impending disaster, the child's rasping 'Redrum' and the various unexpected beings rattling around in the hotel, sits quite neatly in this sub-category.
A special mention has to go to the BBC's early '90s stab at this genre - the television play Ghostwatch, which scared the hell out of me at the time, provoked a rash of viewer complaints, prompted one suicide and has never been repeated.
2. Terror: It could be argued that this is a catch-all class, but I think it includes those films that, while not being Slasher or Shocker films are too explicit to be merely Spooky. I think most Zombie films, from Night of the Living Dead to 28 Days Later can be included here, as well as most films featuring odd homocidal creatures, such as Aliens (but not Alien, more of a Spooky film) along with the Hammer House of Horror productions and their like. I also think the more gruesome Horror films, often referred to as 'exploitation' films belong here, such as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Last House on the Left and Cannibal Holocaust - the last of these meriting a name check because it retains the title of The Most Disturbing Film I Have Ever Seen.
3. Slasher: Clearly, the slightly dodgy Jason, Freddie, and Halloween films and all their inferior imitators.
4. Shocker: The twattish little brother of Slasher films, these seem to trade on no more than simply shocking the audience - Final Destination, I Know What You Did Last Summer and so on.
So, after pompously defining the Horror genre, here's a list of, in my opinion, the best Horror films around. They seem to come from the Spooky or Terror categories, which I suppose are the ones I find the most 'shit-yer-pants-scary'. In no particular order:
1. Don't Look Now: Set mostly in gloomy decaying Venice, this film creates a constant understated menace that bubbles under the suface for much of the time and only manifests itself visually at the startling climax. Brilliantly subtle Horror film, with the added bonus of wondering whether Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie really did have sex.
2. The Ju-On films: I've only seen two of these (out of four) but I choose them rather than any of the other dazzlingly terrifying Japanese films because they seem to bring together all the elements of, for example, Ringu and Dark Water, and unremittingly assault the viewer with the result - a steady succession of eldritch images and deeply unnerving sound effects.
3. The Others: Although not as immediately scary as many other films, and despite its slightly gimmicky twist, the brooding mansion enveloped by perpetual fog, the constant unease and tension within that mansion and the vaguely threatening unseen presences make this an accomplished and stylish Horror film.
4. The Eye: Another one from the far east, this time Hong Kong. A blind woman gets a corneal transplant and as a result can see for almost the first time in her life - but naturally she can make out certain things other people, with their home-grown organs, can't. It's enough to make me think that, even if I was close to death on an operating table and the surgeon was about to perform a life-saving transplant operation, I would insist on seeing evidence that my new body part hadn't once belonged to a feared village outcast, or been dug up in a Native American burial ground, before I consented to the procedure.
5. The Omen: A big budget '70s studio film - and an effortlessly effective Horror film. I once knew someone who watched this when he was 13, and went to bed afterwards, almost paralysed with fear. Waking from a nightmare a few hours later he scrambled out of his bedroom into the long corridor outside, and saw the disembodied head of the impaled priest come floating towards him, prompting him to run screaming around the house. No, it wasn't me - I'd have just thought it was Dr. Who.
Glastonbury 2004 (Wednesday 30th June 2004)
Muddy Funsters: Edited Notes from Glastonbury 2004
All times are approximate...
Wednesday
6pm My clock-watching has become offensively obvious. Hoisting the hamper packed with quails' eggs and roast swan onto my back, I slip unnoticed from the office. (An aside: has Glastonbury really changed that much? This is an article from 18 years ago.)
6.55pm Paddington. The 'special service' train to Castle Cary I'm planning to catch is so special that it has had to be cancelled. I manage to catch up with another one at Reading.
9.30pm Bit of a queue to get through the fuckoffsuperfence. An over-enthusiastic jobsworth rifles through every last pocket in my rucksack. You're not getting my shoes off mate.
'Do you have anything in there you're not supposed to have?'
'No' I say.
'You know what I mean?'
'Yes.' This is getting tedious.
'Well, if you do it's much better I find it than the lads inside. They've had nothing to do for two days and'll fuck you up if they find anything.'
Nice. So much for the Glastonbury spirit.
9.45pm I am beginning to suspect that Matt is some kind of modern day miracle worker (like Derrin Brown). Not only has he single-handedly erected two tents in rain and a howling gale, but he's also managed to save a space for a third tent, which I proceed to try and put up. After a few farcical minutes of missing pegs and wildly flapping canvas, I wonder if pissing into the wind would achieve more.
Thursday
7.30am The tent is shaking, the roar of wind and rain echoes through its shell-like interior. I struggle down to the Joe Banana's blanket stall and buy wellies for Claire and myself, and, on Matt's behalf, a pair of gum boots for Sally.
9.17pm Portugal have equalised. The jingoism and tension that has made me feel slightly uncomfortable throughout the match climax, and I decide to boycott the rest of the game. Unfortunately it seems I can't avoid it - the whole site rings with the groaning of supporters and the background roar of the Estadio da Luz.
10.30pm I meet Claire at 'Pedestrian Gate A'. Hooray! We head back to the tent, where we discover Sally has also arrived. Everyone's here. Time for the festival.
Friday
4.45pm Badly Drawn Boy must be rather hot in that woolly hat. Maybe it's an affectation, or maybe he's slightly unstable, as his increasingly random mumblings between and during songs suggest.
5.10pm Ah ha! Off-stage celebrity sighting number 1: Howard Marks.
6.05pm Groove Armada sound good, but I only have the energy to sit on the ground and listen, in the lovely sunshine. And there's my first spotting of public nudity at the festival, just passing. Charming.
9.00pm onwards The Avalon Stage is a tiny, out-of-the-way stage, but an early arrival means that Claire and I are right at the front, leaning against the barriers, as Lamb come on. They play for an incredible hour - it is amazing, intimate, perfect, charged with emotion, owing to Andy confirming the band's imminent split at the start of the gig. He cries, shouts, crowdsurfs, twiddles knobs and plays his bongos. Lou's beautiful voice is a sensation and her performance is inspired. This is the best gig I've ever been to, without exception.
10.45pm Oasis have a hard act to follow, but they're doing OK. The only problem is that I enjoyed Karaoke more when I did it in Hong Kong, and I have a suspicion that Paul McCartney will have the upper hand when it comes to sing-a-long classics. Still, all together now, 'Maybe, I don't really want to fookin' know...'
Saturday
7.00am Despite yesterday's sunshine, that constant pattering sound isn't the near-by buzzing of the electricity pylons, but unpleasant rain, falling from an unpromising grey sky. I decide to stay in the tent for a few hours.
2.35pm It's amazing how quickly the grass gets pounded into submission, and dark brown porridge appears in its place. Thank god we aren't up here in this beastly mud and oomska without Wellingtons. It's also lucky that we have a third tent in which to store all soiled garments.
4.30pm But not as lucky as this: Matt, Claire and I are trudging to the Cabaret tent with the intention of seeing Stuart Lee's amusingly sarcastic act, when we hear 'Heaven' wafting over the trees. A quick splash over to the Jazz World stage finds Lamb playing an unscheduled acoustic set. Fantastic!
9.05pm Damien Rice strums away self-indulgently. 'He's no Jeff Buckley', I remark to Claire.
9.11pm Mr. Rice begs to differ, launching into 'Hallelujah'. Still, he's no Thom Yorke.
9.19pm Rice pleases the crowd with a version of 'Creep'.
10.30pm onwards Macca performs a dazzling array of covers, including Joe Cocker's 'With a Little Help from my Friends', Tiffany's 'I Saw Him Standing There' (except he substitutes 'him' for 'her', the cheeky scouse scamp), the Will Young/Gareth Gates love-in 'The Long and Winding Road' and Guns 'n' Roses' 'Live and Let Die' (accompanied by impressive pyrotechnics). The Droopy-Eyed Left-Handed One also plays touching tribute to the Thickly-Eyebrowed Quiet One and the Speccy One in a populist high-quality set, that would have even Osama Bin Ladin tapping his feet, had he managed to get a ticket this year.
Sunday
1.30pm This is the sound of the Zutons. And it's alright, but I get a bit bored and wander off after a while to have my fifth Cheese/Spinach/Mushroom crepe of the weekend.
2.25pm The Divine Comedy are performing with aplomb. Neil Hannon's straightforward political opinions make a pleasant change from the tiring bombast heard elsewhere on Worthy Farm.
'The UK Independence Party...they're a bunch of nobs aren't they?'
Then he plays a cover of the Queens of the Stone Age's 'No-one Knows'. The wag.
3.30pm I go for my second wander around the Green Fields and the Stone Circle: 'Insect Circus!' 'Pointless Maze!' 'Weave your own fence.' 'Tie your own dye'. 'Hash truffles - get your hash truffles!' 'Mushrooms, lovely mushrooms!' 'Wrens' livers! Otters' spleens!'. And so on.
4.05pm I'm wandering carelessly through the Tipi field, wondering if I'd like to live in a wigwam. And there she is - a few yards away with her children: Louise Robinson (nee Rhodes), soon to be erstwhile singer and lyricist from Lamb...we'd like to know a little bit about you for our files.
4.06pm It's no good, I'm too shy. I can't muster the courage to go and say hello to her. She rounds up her two little boys, glances at me briefly and moves on.
4.15pm I excitedly tell Claire about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.
6.45pm I bump into Matt and Sally, a couple of wine bottles happier. I excitedly tell them about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.
6.50pm Matt and Sally wander off and I think about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret. I become conscious of the music blaring out from the near-by Radio 1 stage. It sounds like the discotheque at a wedding. I investigate - and it's no wonder, they've let someone's uncle behind the decks. Hang on, that's Fatboy Slim!
7.35pm I realise that Belle and Sebastian's likeable summery music can't stop the rain. Unfortunately, neither can my 'waterproof' anorak.
7.50pm The sun is shining again, apparently as a result of the collective will of 112, 500 festival-goers. And look - there's a pretty rainbow.
9.40pm 'She walks down the street with a short dress on / which sometimes exposes the tip of her dong'. Thanks, Goldie Lookin Chain.
10.15pm I meet up with everybody near the cider bus. I excitedly remind them about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.
10.16pm I realise my frequent lament is becoming tedious to some people, and I resolve to keep it to myself, at least until I leave Somerset.
11.00pm onwards We have decided to avoid the music headliners and head to the previously unheard of 'Dance and Fire Stage' to watch Bill Bailey's act. It is hilarious. Perhaps it's owing to the slightly befuddled state of my mind at the moment, but I'm giggling like an imbecile, possibly slightly embarrassingly. My highlight is Bailey's rendition 'Zippy-de-do-dah' as performed by Portishead.
Monday
7.15am Wake up. Pain. I try to take the tents down. It's slow going as I feel as though there is a flock of belligerent midget puffins in my head, who won't let me stand up straight. Also, suddenly, mud seems to be over everything. I'm sure it was only on the ground before.
3.00pm After a lot of queuing, both at the site and Castle Cary station, followed by a couple of train journeys, I find myself standing at a cross-roads in Clerkenwell. There isn't a blade of grass or tree to be seen. Or a speck of mud. Surely that's not right.
All times are approximate...
Wednesday
6pm My clock-watching has become offensively obvious. Hoisting the hamper packed with quails' eggs and roast swan onto my back, I slip unnoticed from the office. (An aside: has Glastonbury really changed that much? This is an article from 18 years ago.)
6.55pm Paddington. The 'special service' train to Castle Cary I'm planning to catch is so special that it has had to be cancelled. I manage to catch up with another one at Reading.
9.30pm Bit of a queue to get through the fuckoffsuperfence. An over-enthusiastic jobsworth rifles through every last pocket in my rucksack. You're not getting my shoes off mate.
'Do you have anything in there you're not supposed to have?'
'No' I say.
'You know what I mean?'
'Yes.' This is getting tedious.
'Well, if you do it's much better I find it than the lads inside. They've had nothing to do for two days and'll fuck you up if they find anything.'
Nice. So much for the Glastonbury spirit.
9.45pm I am beginning to suspect that Matt is some kind of modern day miracle worker (like Derrin Brown). Not only has he single-handedly erected two tents in rain and a howling gale, but he's also managed to save a space for a third tent, which I proceed to try and put up. After a few farcical minutes of missing pegs and wildly flapping canvas, I wonder if pissing into the wind would achieve more.
Thursday
7.30am The tent is shaking, the roar of wind and rain echoes through its shell-like interior. I struggle down to the Joe Banana's blanket stall and buy wellies for Claire and myself, and, on Matt's behalf, a pair of gum boots for Sally.
9.17pm Portugal have equalised. The jingoism and tension that has made me feel slightly uncomfortable throughout the match climax, and I decide to boycott the rest of the game. Unfortunately it seems I can't avoid it - the whole site rings with the groaning of supporters and the background roar of the Estadio da Luz.
10.30pm I meet Claire at 'Pedestrian Gate A'. Hooray! We head back to the tent, where we discover Sally has also arrived. Everyone's here. Time for the festival.
Friday
4.45pm Badly Drawn Boy must be rather hot in that woolly hat. Maybe it's an affectation, or maybe he's slightly unstable, as his increasingly random mumblings between and during songs suggest.
5.10pm Ah ha! Off-stage celebrity sighting number 1: Howard Marks.
6.05pm Groove Armada sound good, but I only have the energy to sit on the ground and listen, in the lovely sunshine. And there's my first spotting of public nudity at the festival, just passing. Charming.
9.00pm onwards The Avalon Stage is a tiny, out-of-the-way stage, but an early arrival means that Claire and I are right at the front, leaning against the barriers, as Lamb come on. They play for an incredible hour - it is amazing, intimate, perfect, charged with emotion, owing to Andy confirming the band's imminent split at the start of the gig. He cries, shouts, crowdsurfs, twiddles knobs and plays his bongos. Lou's beautiful voice is a sensation and her performance is inspired. This is the best gig I've ever been to, without exception.
10.45pm Oasis have a hard act to follow, but they're doing OK. The only problem is that I enjoyed Karaoke more when I did it in Hong Kong, and I have a suspicion that Paul McCartney will have the upper hand when it comes to sing-a-long classics. Still, all together now, 'Maybe, I don't really want to fookin' know...'
Saturday
7.00am Despite yesterday's sunshine, that constant pattering sound isn't the near-by buzzing of the electricity pylons, but unpleasant rain, falling from an unpromising grey sky. I decide to stay in the tent for a few hours.
2.35pm It's amazing how quickly the grass gets pounded into submission, and dark brown porridge appears in its place. Thank god we aren't up here in this beastly mud and oomska without Wellingtons. It's also lucky that we have a third tent in which to store all soiled garments.
4.30pm But not as lucky as this: Matt, Claire and I are trudging to the Cabaret tent with the intention of seeing Stuart Lee's amusingly sarcastic act, when we hear 'Heaven' wafting over the trees. A quick splash over to the Jazz World stage finds Lamb playing an unscheduled acoustic set. Fantastic!
9.05pm Damien Rice strums away self-indulgently. 'He's no Jeff Buckley', I remark to Claire.
9.11pm Mr. Rice begs to differ, launching into 'Hallelujah'. Still, he's no Thom Yorke.
9.19pm Rice pleases the crowd with a version of 'Creep'.
10.30pm onwards Macca performs a dazzling array of covers, including Joe Cocker's 'With a Little Help from my Friends', Tiffany's 'I Saw Him Standing There' (except he substitutes 'him' for 'her', the cheeky scouse scamp), the Will Young/Gareth Gates love-in 'The Long and Winding Road' and Guns 'n' Roses' 'Live and Let Die' (accompanied by impressive pyrotechnics). The Droopy-Eyed Left-Handed One also plays touching tribute to the Thickly-Eyebrowed Quiet One and the Speccy One in a populist high-quality set, that would have even Osama Bin Ladin tapping his feet, had he managed to get a ticket this year.
Sunday
1.30pm This is the sound of the Zutons. And it's alright, but I get a bit bored and wander off after a while to have my fifth Cheese/Spinach/Mushroom crepe of the weekend.
2.25pm The Divine Comedy are performing with aplomb. Neil Hannon's straightforward political opinions make a pleasant change from the tiring bombast heard elsewhere on Worthy Farm.
'The UK Independence Party...they're a bunch of nobs aren't they?'
Then he plays a cover of the Queens of the Stone Age's 'No-one Knows'. The wag.
3.30pm I go for my second wander around the Green Fields and the Stone Circle: 'Insect Circus!' 'Pointless Maze!' 'Weave your own fence.' 'Tie your own dye'. 'Hash truffles - get your hash truffles!' 'Mushrooms, lovely mushrooms!' 'Wrens' livers! Otters' spleens!'. And so on.
4.05pm I'm wandering carelessly through the Tipi field, wondering if I'd like to live in a wigwam. And there she is - a few yards away with her children: Louise Robinson (nee Rhodes), soon to be erstwhile singer and lyricist from Lamb...we'd like to know a little bit about you for our files.
4.06pm It's no good, I'm too shy. I can't muster the courage to go and say hello to her. She rounds up her two little boys, glances at me briefly and moves on.
4.15pm I excitedly tell Claire about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.
6.45pm I bump into Matt and Sally, a couple of wine bottles happier. I excitedly tell them about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.
6.50pm Matt and Sally wander off and I think about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret. I become conscious of the music blaring out from the near-by Radio 1 stage. It sounds like the discotheque at a wedding. I investigate - and it's no wonder, they've let someone's uncle behind the decks. Hang on, that's Fatboy Slim!
7.35pm I realise that Belle and Sebastian's likeable summery music can't stop the rain. Unfortunately, neither can my 'waterproof' anorak.
7.50pm The sun is shining again, apparently as a result of the collective will of 112, 500 festival-goers. And look - there's a pretty rainbow.
9.40pm 'She walks down the street with a short dress on / which sometimes exposes the tip of her dong'. Thanks, Goldie Lookin Chain.
10.15pm I meet up with everybody near the cider bus. I excitedly remind them about my non-encounter and the way I'm being eaten up inside by regret.
10.16pm I realise my frequent lament is becoming tedious to some people, and I resolve to keep it to myself, at least until I leave Somerset.
11.00pm onwards We have decided to avoid the music headliners and head to the previously unheard of 'Dance and Fire Stage' to watch Bill Bailey's act. It is hilarious. Perhaps it's owing to the slightly befuddled state of my mind at the moment, but I'm giggling like an imbecile, possibly slightly embarrassingly. My highlight is Bailey's rendition 'Zippy-de-do-dah' as performed by Portishead.
Monday
7.15am Wake up. Pain. I try to take the tents down. It's slow going as I feel as though there is a flock of belligerent midget puffins in my head, who won't let me stand up straight. Also, suddenly, mud seems to be over everything. I'm sure it was only on the ground before.
3.00pm After a lot of queuing, both at the site and Castle Cary station, followed by a couple of train journeys, I find myself standing at a cross-roads in Clerkenwell. There isn't a blade of grass or tree to be seen. Or a speck of mud. Surely that's not right.
Tiger (Monday 6th October 2003)
It's likely that the majority of the reasons for my particular affection for the tiger (and I'm talking the animal, not the beer) are rooted firmly in either childishness or simplicity. While as a child I never had a specific liking for Frosties (I suspect the case to conserve the Honey Monster is less convincing) I've always been an avid reader of Calvin & Hobbes (the comic strip, not the theologian and philosopher) and have always maintained that if I were a character in the His Dark Materials trilogy my daemon would be a young tiger, with oversized paws. And, aesthetically, tigers, young or fully grown, are immediately appealing - for most people (unless you're a sweaty scout-master) the word 'cub' elicits the image of a mewling ball of fur with little sense of co-ordination and oversized paws (again), while the beauty and majesty of of a fully grown tiger is difficult to ignore. And, in addition to the above, my fondness for tigers is wrapped up in a slightly painful childhood memory.
I can't have been much older than six. My class were preparing for 'our' assembly - every class had to do one: put on some kind of entertainment one morning, for the rest of the school. We were planning to do a presentation on endangered species - we all had to pick a threatened animal and write a paragraph to read out on the big day (no doubt in a high-pitched monotone, giving no allowance to full stops or commas and swinging our arms self-consciously as we spoke). I chose the tiger, Ian chose the panda bear and, after being gently talked out of picking the worm, Edward picked the elephant. I clearly remember putting the finishing touches to my little speech on tigers, and pritt-sticking a picture of a roaring tiger on to my script, seemingly oblivious of the fact that no-one was going to see it but me. As well as preparing our paragraph we spent what seemed like weeks stapling together lots of cardboard to make one long carboard box, which we then painted bright blue - apart from daubing the word 'Danger' in black on the side. This was for the opening of our assembly, our teacher, Miss Huntingford, proudly explained. Darren and Andrew were going to open the proceedings by discussing that the most dangerous animal in the world was contained in the box. What could it be - a snake? A lion? Then out of the box would climb Ben Freeman, demonstrating that, in fact, Man was the world's most dangerous creature. This was ironic, since Ben was the child systematically beaten up in the playground every breaktime.
With this stunning coup de theatre planned, it seemed little could go wrong. All the same we rehearsed - after the reveal the rest of us were to stand in a line on the stage and say our piece. First it was Nick the Bully, then Ian, then me, then Edward and so on. We read our parts in order and our excitement mounted. Miss Huntingford said that if we weren't sure what to do on the big day, she would be sitting at the back and if we looked at her she would silently mouth us directions.
Finally, that fateful morning in the spring of 1985 (probably) came around. As a class we all entered the school gym, each clutching the precious scraps of paper containing our lines, and assembled on the stage. Gradually the rest of the school came in, settled and the fun began. The box scenario was played out, and then Nick stepped foward. 'The-rhino-saurus-is'n-ani-mal-wich-lives-inaf-ric-a,' and so on. Then he finished, and I waited patiently for Ian to start his bit. But there was silence. I looked at Ian. He was looking at me. More silence. I looked to the back of the gym - there was Miss Huntingford, mouthing frantically at me, 'You go, your turn'. More silence. I thought for a second, remembering that it wasn't me who was supposed to go next, it was Ian. So I said so. In the middle of the performance, in front of the whole school, I said, 'No it's not me Miss Huntingford, it's Ian! It's his go!'. More silence, broken only my the odd sniff and snigger. I looked at Miss Huntingford - her face was like thunder. I looked down at my script, and fighting to read it through eyes blurring with tears, I said my bit. Just then, my dog-eared roaring tiger, cut out as carefully as a left-handed six- year-old can from a World Wildlife Fund magazine, was my only friend in a room of over one hundred people.
And so I've maintained my personal link with the tiger. I've also maintained that I was in the right - it wasn't my turn to speak. Of course there are countless threatened species in the world, and to adopt one as a pet cause is to ignore many others, and it's difficult to go on about, for example, the plight of tigers, without being conscious of this fact, and also without acknowledging the ill-educated anthropomorphic reasons that form much of the basis of my interest in the animals. But they are seriously threatened - at the risk of regurgitating my school talk (although in the 19 years since I scrawled that down the numbers will have changed), 100 years ago there were 100,000 tigers in the world, split into 8 sub-species. Today there are between 5,000-7,500 (maximum) tigers left - divided into 5 sub-species (3 are already extinct). The destruction of the tiger population is down to the steady eradication of their habitat - which in turn leads to the fragmentation of their population: groups are split up, communities become smaller and tigers are forced to inbreed, weakening their gene pool. Another major factor is poaching - Chinese traditional medicine provides a strong demand for various parts of the tiger. For example, the bones are used to treat rheumatism, the eyes - epilepsy, the brain - laziness and acne, the tail - skin diseases while the whiskers are used both as a 'cure' for toothaches and good luck charms. There is, of course, a strong movement to try and stem the gradual disappearence of tigers in the wild. Potential solutions and ways in which people can help can be found on countless webites, such as www.tigersincrisis.com - but at the same time there are plenty of easily located websites where you can buy tigers on-line. Governments have attempted to make inroads into the poaching problem, with varying degrees of success - for instance, the tiger is protected under the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, an agreement signed by over 120 countries, which seeks to crack down on the illegal trade of animals and plants.
Then, there is always the argument that one of the most effective ways to protect a species is to remove it from its natural habitat and keep it in a controlled environment, such as a zoo. Whether this is an effective mechanism towards conservation, or simply a cynical way for zoos to justify the caging of animals is a heavily debated topic, and I'm not entirely sure of the rights and wrongs, but I'll admit to enjoying both the London and Bristol zoos, which seem to have a genuine conservation programme in action. However, there are two reasons for which an animal is taken out of the wild and kept in captivity which I think are cruel and wrong.
The first is to keep it as a pet, as highlighted by this almost unbelievable story concerning a fully grown Bengal tiger - and a crocodile - kept in in a Harlem flat. The 'owner' of these creatures was found out only when he was attacked by the tiger and had to go to hospital. The BBC story claims that an estimated 10,000 tigers are kept privately by US citizens - enough to almost double the population that currently exists in the wild. I find this pretty disgraceful especially as, and I may be wrong, I doubt the majority of these pets are allowed to breed or are given the space they need to live in. I can't imagine the flat in Harlem contained a roof terrace the size of the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans, for example.
A few of the 10,000 tigers in the mostly unscrupulous hands of private owners must belong to Siegfried and Roy, providers of perhaps the most out-of-date, tasteless and irrelevant examples of mainstream live 'entertainment' doing the rounds today. And this is the second reason for which tigers are taken out of the wild that I'm failing not to sound sanctimonious about - entertainment. I think it's safe to say that in the UK you'd be hard pressed to find a circus or cabaret act that used wild animals - but you only need to cross the channel to find that even the shabbiest two-bit circuses in France own a couple of lions, as well as a few monkeys for good measure - last year I sat incredulous in a grotty big top erected on a car park in a small town in the Dordogne, as a Shetland pony scampered in circuits around the small ring, being ridden by a little monkey.
I read that Siegfried - or is it Roy - has finally been mauled by one of their tigers. While of course wishing the mulletted German a speedy recovery, I hope perhaps this may make them, their fans and anyone else who has no qualms about using wild animals in such a way, realise that the animals simply don't like it - no, the fact he's wagging his tail doesn't mean he's enjoying it, and no, the fact he's drawing his top lip over his teeth doesn't mean that he's smiling at all you lovely folks out there, give yourselves a round of applause...
However, I will, of course, reserve the right to expect my dog to come when he's called and react in kind to my good-humoured taunting.
I can't have been much older than six. My class were preparing for 'our' assembly - every class had to do one: put on some kind of entertainment one morning, for the rest of the school. We were planning to do a presentation on endangered species - we all had to pick a threatened animal and write a paragraph to read out on the big day (no doubt in a high-pitched monotone, giving no allowance to full stops or commas and swinging our arms self-consciously as we spoke). I chose the tiger, Ian chose the panda bear and, after being gently talked out of picking the worm, Edward picked the elephant. I clearly remember putting the finishing touches to my little speech on tigers, and pritt-sticking a picture of a roaring tiger on to my script, seemingly oblivious of the fact that no-one was going to see it but me. As well as preparing our paragraph we spent what seemed like weeks stapling together lots of cardboard to make one long carboard box, which we then painted bright blue - apart from daubing the word 'Danger' in black on the side. This was for the opening of our assembly, our teacher, Miss Huntingford, proudly explained. Darren and Andrew were going to open the proceedings by discussing that the most dangerous animal in the world was contained in the box. What could it be - a snake? A lion? Then out of the box would climb Ben Freeman, demonstrating that, in fact, Man was the world's most dangerous creature. This was ironic, since Ben was the child systematically beaten up in the playground every breaktime.
With this stunning coup de theatre planned, it seemed little could go wrong. All the same we rehearsed - after the reveal the rest of us were to stand in a line on the stage and say our piece. First it was Nick the Bully, then Ian, then me, then Edward and so on. We read our parts in order and our excitement mounted. Miss Huntingford said that if we weren't sure what to do on the big day, she would be sitting at the back and if we looked at her she would silently mouth us directions.
Finally, that fateful morning in the spring of 1985 (probably) came around. As a class we all entered the school gym, each clutching the precious scraps of paper containing our lines, and assembled on the stage. Gradually the rest of the school came in, settled and the fun began. The box scenario was played out, and then Nick stepped foward. 'The-rhino-saurus-is'n-ani-mal-wich-lives-inaf-ric-a,' and so on. Then he finished, and I waited patiently for Ian to start his bit. But there was silence. I looked at Ian. He was looking at me. More silence. I looked to the back of the gym - there was Miss Huntingford, mouthing frantically at me, 'You go, your turn'. More silence. I thought for a second, remembering that it wasn't me who was supposed to go next, it was Ian. So I said so. In the middle of the performance, in front of the whole school, I said, 'No it's not me Miss Huntingford, it's Ian! It's his go!'. More silence, broken only my the odd sniff and snigger. I looked at Miss Huntingford - her face was like thunder. I looked down at my script, and fighting to read it through eyes blurring with tears, I said my bit. Just then, my dog-eared roaring tiger, cut out as carefully as a left-handed six- year-old can from a World Wildlife Fund magazine, was my only friend in a room of over one hundred people.
And so I've maintained my personal link with the tiger. I've also maintained that I was in the right - it wasn't my turn to speak. Of course there are countless threatened species in the world, and to adopt one as a pet cause is to ignore many others, and it's difficult to go on about, for example, the plight of tigers, without being conscious of this fact, and also without acknowledging the ill-educated anthropomorphic reasons that form much of the basis of my interest in the animals. But they are seriously threatened - at the risk of regurgitating my school talk (although in the 19 years since I scrawled that down the numbers will have changed), 100 years ago there were 100,000 tigers in the world, split into 8 sub-species. Today there are between 5,000-7,500 (maximum) tigers left - divided into 5 sub-species (3 are already extinct). The destruction of the tiger population is down to the steady eradication of their habitat - which in turn leads to the fragmentation of their population: groups are split up, communities become smaller and tigers are forced to inbreed, weakening their gene pool. Another major factor is poaching - Chinese traditional medicine provides a strong demand for various parts of the tiger. For example, the bones are used to treat rheumatism, the eyes - epilepsy, the brain - laziness and acne, the tail - skin diseases while the whiskers are used both as a 'cure' for toothaches and good luck charms. There is, of course, a strong movement to try and stem the gradual disappearence of tigers in the wild. Potential solutions and ways in which people can help can be found on countless webites, such as www.tigersincrisis.com - but at the same time there are plenty of easily located websites where you can buy tigers on-line. Governments have attempted to make inroads into the poaching problem, with varying degrees of success - for instance, the tiger is protected under the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, an agreement signed by over 120 countries, which seeks to crack down on the illegal trade of animals and plants.
Then, there is always the argument that one of the most effective ways to protect a species is to remove it from its natural habitat and keep it in a controlled environment, such as a zoo. Whether this is an effective mechanism towards conservation, or simply a cynical way for zoos to justify the caging of animals is a heavily debated topic, and I'm not entirely sure of the rights and wrongs, but I'll admit to enjoying both the London and Bristol zoos, which seem to have a genuine conservation programme in action. However, there are two reasons for which an animal is taken out of the wild and kept in captivity which I think are cruel and wrong.
The first is to keep it as a pet, as highlighted by this almost unbelievable story concerning a fully grown Bengal tiger - and a crocodile - kept in in a Harlem flat. The 'owner' of these creatures was found out only when he was attacked by the tiger and had to go to hospital. The BBC story claims that an estimated 10,000 tigers are kept privately by US citizens - enough to almost double the population that currently exists in the wild. I find this pretty disgraceful especially as, and I may be wrong, I doubt the majority of these pets are allowed to breed or are given the space they need to live in. I can't imagine the flat in Harlem contained a roof terrace the size of the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans, for example.
A few of the 10,000 tigers in the mostly unscrupulous hands of private owners must belong to Siegfried and Roy, providers of perhaps the most out-of-date, tasteless and irrelevant examples of mainstream live 'entertainment' doing the rounds today. And this is the second reason for which tigers are taken out of the wild that I'm failing not to sound sanctimonious about - entertainment. I think it's safe to say that in the UK you'd be hard pressed to find a circus or cabaret act that used wild animals - but you only need to cross the channel to find that even the shabbiest two-bit circuses in France own a couple of lions, as well as a few monkeys for good measure - last year I sat incredulous in a grotty big top erected on a car park in a small town in the Dordogne, as a Shetland pony scampered in circuits around the small ring, being ridden by a little monkey.
I read that Siegfried - or is it Roy - has finally been mauled by one of their tigers. While of course wishing the mulletted German a speedy recovery, I hope perhaps this may make them, their fans and anyone else who has no qualms about using wild animals in such a way, realise that the animals simply don't like it - no, the fact he's wagging his tail doesn't mean he's enjoying it, and no, the fact he's drawing his top lip over his teeth doesn't mean that he's smiling at all you lovely folks out there, give yourselves a round of applause...
However, I will, of course, reserve the right to expect my dog to come when he's called and react in kind to my good-humoured taunting.
Siena and Florence (Wednesday 24th September 2003)
It was nearly a month ago since Claire and I set off on holiday and over two weeks since we returned, so, true to the laggardly nature of the Italian postal system, this is my brief postcard.
As evidenced by a slightly odd entry in the guestbook we initially stayed in Siena for a few days, despite the fact that on the way to Florence airport the plane was diverted and a fairly protracted journey ensued in order to get to Siena before sundown, and thus avoid the slightly disturbing prospect of being stranded somewhere in the Tuscan country-side all night (would have been quite fun, come to think of it).
Siena is beautiful and welcoming. It is compact, almost entirely squeezed into its medieval city walls, but infinitely explorable, full of lanes and small roads stacked on different levels and winding in a way which tortures the hapless wanderer's sense of direction. Our hotel was just outside one of the city gates. It was (almost) perfect and the view from our room was stunning - my meagre descriptive powers wouldn't really do it justice, so I give up, only saying we could see for miles across the gentle hills of Tuscany. As this is just a postcard I shall only list art, a contrade procession, ice creams, towers, food (pasta, cheese, scallops, lard...), a liqorice allsort cathedral and a saint's decapitated head. Siena, I hope to return soon.
A cheap bus ride later we were in Florence, crowded and dirty - a strange contrast to Siena: the heart of the Renaissance but somewhere, that on first aquaintance, after Siena, seems to be less artful and less civilised. But the treasures are mainly inside - although the Duomo is impressive and huge, it is caked with dirt and jostling tourists make wandering outside it slightly uncomfortable. The Dome however is huge, and a climb to the top was worth it for the views and an appreciation of the engineering and scale of the building...but as I said, inside was the place to be: The Pitti Palace, the Uffizi (for which we didn't queue at all), various other Cathedrals - bringing with them the tombs or memorials of Dante, Michaelangelo, Galileo, bewildering frescoes - and an inexhaustible supply of Byzantine, Renaissance and Mannerist religious art. The quality and quantity of art is overwhelming and other distractions included the Boboli Gardens, Leonardo's graffiti, Fiesole (a nearby hill town, which offered views of Florence akin to those you would get landing in a plane (assuming it hadn't been redirected to Bologna)), much more food including some very discerning pasta and meat purchases at the indoor food market, and a few bug bites.
A few things conspired through the week to make the holiday appear, if I detailed them here, less than perfect. But it was the most fun and happy holiday I've had because, as if it needs saying, for every plane re-direction there's an evening by the Arno that cancels it out many times over.
As evidenced by a slightly odd entry in the guestbook we initially stayed in Siena for a few days, despite the fact that on the way to Florence airport the plane was diverted and a fairly protracted journey ensued in order to get to Siena before sundown, and thus avoid the slightly disturbing prospect of being stranded somewhere in the Tuscan country-side all night (would have been quite fun, come to think of it).
Siena is beautiful and welcoming. It is compact, almost entirely squeezed into its medieval city walls, but infinitely explorable, full of lanes and small roads stacked on different levels and winding in a way which tortures the hapless wanderer's sense of direction. Our hotel was just outside one of the city gates. It was (almost) perfect and the view from our room was stunning - my meagre descriptive powers wouldn't really do it justice, so I give up, only saying we could see for miles across the gentle hills of Tuscany. As this is just a postcard I shall only list art, a contrade procession, ice creams, towers, food (pasta, cheese, scallops, lard...), a liqorice allsort cathedral and a saint's decapitated head. Siena, I hope to return soon.
A cheap bus ride later we were in Florence, crowded and dirty - a strange contrast to Siena: the heart of the Renaissance but somewhere, that on first aquaintance, after Siena, seems to be less artful and less civilised. But the treasures are mainly inside - although the Duomo is impressive and huge, it is caked with dirt and jostling tourists make wandering outside it slightly uncomfortable. The Dome however is huge, and a climb to the top was worth it for the views and an appreciation of the engineering and scale of the building...but as I said, inside was the place to be: The Pitti Palace, the Uffizi (for which we didn't queue at all), various other Cathedrals - bringing with them the tombs or memorials of Dante, Michaelangelo, Galileo, bewildering frescoes - and an inexhaustible supply of Byzantine, Renaissance and Mannerist religious art. The quality and quantity of art is overwhelming and other distractions included the Boboli Gardens, Leonardo's graffiti, Fiesole (a nearby hill town, which offered views of Florence akin to those you would get landing in a plane (assuming it hadn't been redirected to Bologna)), much more food including some very discerning pasta and meat purchases at the indoor food market, and a few bug bites.
A few things conspired through the week to make the holiday appear, if I detailed them here, less than perfect. But it was the most fun and happy holiday I've had because, as if it needs saying, for every plane re-direction there's an evening by the Arno that cancels it out many times over.
Tea (Monday 21st July 2003
"You have arrived at a propitious moment, coincident with your country's one indisputable contribution to Western civilisation - afternoon tea. May I press you to a cucumber sandwich?"
Thus speaks Hugo Drax to James Bond. And despite Goscinny and Uderzo's claims to the contary (which state the convention was introduced by an indomitable Gaul) this most eloquent of Bond villains has a point. Coffee is an indispensible beverage, but, to further strengthen the sterotype, I will always be in the mood for a cup of tea - not solely in the afternoon. A mug acted as a handy replacement for a cigarette when I first gave up a couple of years ago, and still functions to fill that void, that slightly disconcerting feeling which is often difficult to pin down - I'm on the sofa, in front of the telly, comfortable, the remote control nearby, tranquility almost graspable...but something is missing, something is barring the way to utter contentment - tea completes the picture and settles the mind.
I've often endured ridicule for my choice of tea - I like the smokiness of Lapsang Souchong or the strong distinctive flavour of Assam (made from leaves carefully selected "from the best tea estates situated around the humid banks of the Brahmaputra River in Assam, north east India" according to the box of tea bags sitting on my desk) both which appeared to offend the more delicate tea sensibilities of Earl Grey drinking ex-housemates. But I'm equally happy when the local Chinese tosses a couple of complimentary Green tea bags into the delivery. Which brings me to the point of these tedious ramblings - to pass on the story of a recent criminal trial in the States, which suggests that not only does tea have, even when undoctored, stronger effects than Drax's slightly patronising aside assumes, but also provides a watertight legal defence to certain illicit activites.
Various newspapers have reported the story of a Florida man who landed up in court after chasing his neighbour with a dagger. And quite right too. However, he escaped prosecution on the grounds that the "chasing with a dagger" activities (I'm not sure of the legal term for this act) and other instances of criminal behaviour were caused by the halucinogenic properties of Jasmine tea. Gilbert Walker was on ten cups of the stuff per day, and as a result had been having apocalyptic nightmares based on the Biblical struggles between good and evil.
Other, less theological, delusions included ceramic dogs shouting at him (although I think this might happen somewhere in Ezekiel) and the compulsion to throw a brass duck through his neighbour's window - which he did. If it wasn't enough for his neighbour to have metal water fowl interrupting her daily fix of Jenny Jones, she then had to endure the terror of Mr Walker bursting into her house, doped up to the eye balls on jasmine. He subsequently chased her into the street at knifepoint. The Roll on Friday website reports that "the police arrived to find him bug-eyed and shouting 'I'm crazy' - an accurate, if unneccessary, summary of the situation".
This story made me worry a bit - I'm sure my mum drinks more than 10 cups of tea a day - in fact, despite some strong competition over the years, I have still yet to meet anyone who drinks as much tea as she does. Her tea of choice is regular Yorkshire Tea, which is, I hope, only a Class B or C tea, unlike the positively skaggy Jasmine. But there is hope if I catch my mother busy on a crime spree suggested to her in a conversation with a particularly chatty ornament. I can rely on the precedent set in the Walker case, which could be pursuasive in an English court. A band of psychologists and forensic toxicologists assembled by the defence attorney helped the judge to come to the conclusion that Walker "had been suffering from a psychotic episode induced by drinking the ostensibly innocuous beverage". The charge was dropped and Walker is free to put the kettle on another day.
Would be misfits might like to note that this defence has variants, as mentioned by The Houston Chronicle when reporting this story:
"Prosecutors likened the tea theory to the "twinkie defense" used by former San Francisco Supervisor Dan White, who was charged with killing the city's mayor and another supervisor in 1978. He avoided a first-degree murder charge and was convicted of involuntary manslaughter after his lawyers convinced jurors that eating junk food had diminished White's mental capacity."
Thus speaks Hugo Drax to James Bond. And despite Goscinny and Uderzo's claims to the contary (which state the convention was introduced by an indomitable Gaul) this most eloquent of Bond villains has a point. Coffee is an indispensible beverage, but, to further strengthen the sterotype, I will always be in the mood for a cup of tea - not solely in the afternoon. A mug acted as a handy replacement for a cigarette when I first gave up a couple of years ago, and still functions to fill that void, that slightly disconcerting feeling which is often difficult to pin down - I'm on the sofa, in front of the telly, comfortable, the remote control nearby, tranquility almost graspable...but something is missing, something is barring the way to utter contentment - tea completes the picture and settles the mind.
I've often endured ridicule for my choice of tea - I like the smokiness of Lapsang Souchong or the strong distinctive flavour of Assam (made from leaves carefully selected "from the best tea estates situated around the humid banks of the Brahmaputra River in Assam, north east India" according to the box of tea bags sitting on my desk) both which appeared to offend the more delicate tea sensibilities of Earl Grey drinking ex-housemates. But I'm equally happy when the local Chinese tosses a couple of complimentary Green tea bags into the delivery. Which brings me to the point of these tedious ramblings - to pass on the story of a recent criminal trial in the States, which suggests that not only does tea have, even when undoctored, stronger effects than Drax's slightly patronising aside assumes, but also provides a watertight legal defence to certain illicit activites.
Various newspapers have reported the story of a Florida man who landed up in court after chasing his neighbour with a dagger. And quite right too. However, he escaped prosecution on the grounds that the "chasing with a dagger" activities (I'm not sure of the legal term for this act) and other instances of criminal behaviour were caused by the halucinogenic properties of Jasmine tea. Gilbert Walker was on ten cups of the stuff per day, and as a result had been having apocalyptic nightmares based on the Biblical struggles between good and evil.
Other, less theological, delusions included ceramic dogs shouting at him (although I think this might happen somewhere in Ezekiel) and the compulsion to throw a brass duck through his neighbour's window - which he did. If it wasn't enough for his neighbour to have metal water fowl interrupting her daily fix of Jenny Jones, she then had to endure the terror of Mr Walker bursting into her house, doped up to the eye balls on jasmine. He subsequently chased her into the street at knifepoint. The Roll on Friday website reports that "the police arrived to find him bug-eyed and shouting 'I'm crazy' - an accurate, if unneccessary, summary of the situation".
This story made me worry a bit - I'm sure my mum drinks more than 10 cups of tea a day - in fact, despite some strong competition over the years, I have still yet to meet anyone who drinks as much tea as she does. Her tea of choice is regular Yorkshire Tea, which is, I hope, only a Class B or C tea, unlike the positively skaggy Jasmine. But there is hope if I catch my mother busy on a crime spree suggested to her in a conversation with a particularly chatty ornament. I can rely on the precedent set in the Walker case, which could be pursuasive in an English court. A band of psychologists and forensic toxicologists assembled by the defence attorney helped the judge to come to the conclusion that Walker "had been suffering from a psychotic episode induced by drinking the ostensibly innocuous beverage". The charge was dropped and Walker is free to put the kettle on another day.
Would be misfits might like to note that this defence has variants, as mentioned by The Houston Chronicle when reporting this story:
"Prosecutors likened the tea theory to the "twinkie defense" used by former San Francisco Supervisor Dan White, who was charged with killing the city's mayor and another supervisor in 1978. He avoided a first-degree murder charge and was convicted of involuntary manslaughter after his lawyers convinced jurors that eating junk food had diminished White's mental capacity."
Glastonbury 2003 (Wednesday 2nd July 2003)
I don't know if my screaming sore throat and my freely running nose have anything to do with spending three days on a hillside in Somerset, but if so I welcome these symptoms as a cheap price to pay for a blinding festival. Glastonbury this year was the most laid back, easy and friendly festival I have been to yet. Glastonbury has always had the edge over the Reading festival (my other festival experience) for many reasons: Generally the atmosphere is different, indefinably special, the music is more varied and it's not full of gobby 14 year olds in long sleeve black t-shirts. But at Glastonbury in the past there was always a moment or two of mental discomfort, a slight threat, a whiff of the chemical loos. But for some reason this year that was absent. A lot of it may have been to do with our excellent pitch - on the hill above the Pyramid Stage, easy to access, spacious and close to the most desirable sanitary facilities in the festival - the flushing toilets (but not so close that you could tell when they had stopped working). Some of the papers have made a lot of the fact that tighter security, better organisation and the 'superfence' contributed to the safe and happy feeling this year - and this is undoubtedly true: the year that seemed the dodgiest to me was 2000, the year of the gatecrashers, when (some statistics claim) the population of the festival was almost doubled by free loaders. What is encouraging about the reports coming out of Glastonbury this year (as opposed to last) is that people have stopped going on about the erosion of the Glastonbury spirit and accepted that these things have to evolve, that ultimately feeling safe and being able to relax and have fun is at the heart of the whole experience.
The music was excellent - a comfortable front(ish) row spot during Lamb amongst a happy and fun crowd helped make for a stunning gig, and a similar position for the Manics did the same. The Manics played a short set with noticeable gaps for a fan, but it was still fantastic: the rain was falling at this point but it didn't matter, epecially since we were sopping wet with the water generously thrown over the crowd (I still hope to be forgiven for pouring water over Claire's head during La Tristesse Durera).
I could go on and on - I think between the seven of us we perhaps ate most of the different food on offer, saw scores of bands and reached more than a few varied states of mental inebriation. The person found passed out with sick all over his face mid-afternoon shall, at this point, remain nameless.
And now, back at work, dull dull dull, trying to convince people that this is a tan, not dirt semi-permanently ingrained into my face.
The music was excellent - a comfortable front(ish) row spot during Lamb amongst a happy and fun crowd helped make for a stunning gig, and a similar position for the Manics did the same. The Manics played a short set with noticeable gaps for a fan, but it was still fantastic: the rain was falling at this point but it didn't matter, epecially since we were sopping wet with the water generously thrown over the crowd (I still hope to be forgiven for pouring water over Claire's head during La Tristesse Durera).
I could go on and on - I think between the seven of us we perhaps ate most of the different food on offer, saw scores of bands and reached more than a few varied states of mental inebriation. The person found passed out with sick all over his face mid-afternoon shall, at this point, remain nameless.
And now, back at work, dull dull dull, trying to convince people that this is a tan, not dirt semi-permanently ingrained into my face.
Highgate Cemetery (Monday 23rd June 2003)
Yesterday Claire and I went to Highgate Cemetery, having finally got the better of some of the slightly difficult timeframes that it appears London tourists have to operate within - for example Saturday brought the disappointing news that Westminster Abbey shuts at 1.45 on a Saturday afternoon, scuppering any chances of a wander around there at a normal time. It was unfortunate that we only discovered this standing by the door of the Abbey at 3.00pm. Highgate's last tour of the Western Cemetery is at 4.00pm on weekends, and we arrived a bit too late. But the cemetery is guarded by a crack legion of fiercely possessive silver haired pensioners, who, in their infinite wisdom and mercy, granted a couple of overspill tours - this meant hanging around a bit rather than searching in the East Cemetery for Karl Marx and George Eliot, but the West Cemetery is certainly worth the wait - I've been once before but the decaying Gothic allure of the place, complemented by thick creeping undergrowth dotted with wild flowers, seems enduring, and I don't believe its beauty and curious appeal can dim, however often it is visited.
Visitors must take the tour, which is slightly frustrating, as you gaze though the trees into the darkened wilderness of tombs and grave stones from the safety of a main path. The place is virtually woodland, the trees, especially in summer, are thick and threaten to consume the unluckier stones - I saw one flat grave with a tree thrusting through its centre, the cracked slab tilted away from its original position, leaning at an angle and clutched by roots that disappeared into the blackness of the tomb. There are roughly 51,000 graves in Highgate, containing close to 160,000 bodies and there must be memorials in there unseen for decades - the guide, the young buck of the management team (a bespectacled 45 year old) mentioned, for example, that Michael Faraday's grave was 'almost inaccessible'. He wasn't willing to go into the more morbid attractions of Highgate, but was an informative and knowledgeable guide, unlike the woman who guided me around there last year. For a more eldritch description of the cemetery this account is enyoyable reading.
Only Pere Lachaise and the Cemeteries in New Orleans can, in my experience, match Highgate for the beauty of the headstones and the ability to inescapably evoke those base but oddly pleasant darkling feelings of macabre morbidity and, of course, mortality.
Swearing (Monday 2nd June 2003)
I read with amusement that JD Wetherspoon are planning to clamp down on swearing in their pubs, with a 'swear box' contribution demanded for a first offence, followed by a bar if you re-offend (presumably along with being tossed into the street by two gently-spoken bouncers). I've don't really like Wetherspoon's pubs, which are generally too cavernous to have any character and are only worth a visit because of the cheap beer (and even if this is an important factor Samuel Smith pubs are preferable, partly because they're almost vomiting with character). Wetherspoon's currently provide spacious no-smoking areas and have a strict no-games (i.e. snooker, darts) and no-music policy. And now they're looking to outlaw swearing. Perhaps they'll get rid of alcohol next.
Maybe I'm a (fucking) vulgar ruffian. But I like going to the pub and having a good swear. I find that since I gave up smoking swearing gives me something with which to fill my lungs while obscene gestures give me something to do with my hands. If they make me give it all up I might have to resort to smashing pint glasses and throwing chairs through windows, or I may take up smoking again as a substitute and sue Wetherspoon's when I'm dying of cancer.
How is this going to be monitored? How do you define a swearword? If I said "fuck" I'd be barred. But what about "shit"? Is that a swear word? I heard Ricky Gervais say it at 2.55pm on Xfm on Saturday - and under 18s are allowed to listen to the radio. Perhaps Wetherspoon's will decide to put up a list of forbidden words - they could hang them in a lacquered mock-antique frame next to the badly illustrated potted history of the local area that Wetherspoon's punters have to endure while forcing down a microwaved lasagne.
Can I get away with swearing in a different language? And if so, that's a bit unfair, isn't it? If someone can enjoy a pint while loudly telling his ami to retourne enculer les mouches while I have to smile graciously at my friend and tell him meekly to please leave my presence thankyou, surely this isn't right. Everyone should have the right in a pub to swear, in whatever language seems appropriate at the time.
Of course, it would be unreasonable of me to focus purely on the negative effects of this ban. I'm sure "townies" in any university town would enjoy the decline in loudly misquoted lines of Withnail & I interfering with their beer. This in turn would reduce their need to swear, as it has been statistically proven that occurances of the phrase "Fucking students" are most common following Withnail lines. Also, I believe the reasoning behind the pub chain's decision to curb swearing is that swearing is unpleasant for others around and anti-social. Reluctantly, therefore, I applaud the intention. Anti-social behaviour is the bane of many lives - especially Londoners'. For this reason I can vaguely understand why Wetherspoon's pubs have large non-smoking areas: but isn't the anti-social element here to do with health risk, rather than a subjective idea of discomfort, which banning swearing must be based on? And if this is true then there are many anti-social characteristics exhibited by pub-goers which should take precedence over the odd use of colourful language: people who smell, single pub goers or couples who take up a massive table or booth leaving others nowhere to sit, those hideously ingratiating plastic rose sellers, people who piss all over the floor in the gents. I could go on and on before I get to swearers.
I know a lot of people find swearing tedious. For those that don't, like me, this website is enjoyable.
Maybe I'm a (fucking) vulgar ruffian. But I like going to the pub and having a good swear. I find that since I gave up smoking swearing gives me something with which to fill my lungs while obscene gestures give me something to do with my hands. If they make me give it all up I might have to resort to smashing pint glasses and throwing chairs through windows, or I may take up smoking again as a substitute and sue Wetherspoon's when I'm dying of cancer.
How is this going to be monitored? How do you define a swearword? If I said "fuck" I'd be barred. But what about "shit"? Is that a swear word? I heard Ricky Gervais say it at 2.55pm on Xfm on Saturday - and under 18s are allowed to listen to the radio. Perhaps Wetherspoon's will decide to put up a list of forbidden words - they could hang them in a lacquered mock-antique frame next to the badly illustrated potted history of the local area that Wetherspoon's punters have to endure while forcing down a microwaved lasagne.
Can I get away with swearing in a different language? And if so, that's a bit unfair, isn't it? If someone can enjoy a pint while loudly telling his ami to retourne enculer les mouches while I have to smile graciously at my friend and tell him meekly to please leave my presence thankyou, surely this isn't right. Everyone should have the right in a pub to swear, in whatever language seems appropriate at the time.
Of course, it would be unreasonable of me to focus purely on the negative effects of this ban. I'm sure "townies" in any university town would enjoy the decline in loudly misquoted lines of Withnail & I interfering with their beer. This in turn would reduce their need to swear, as it has been statistically proven that occurances of the phrase "Fucking students" are most common following Withnail lines. Also, I believe the reasoning behind the pub chain's decision to curb swearing is that swearing is unpleasant for others around and anti-social. Reluctantly, therefore, I applaud the intention. Anti-social behaviour is the bane of many lives - especially Londoners'. For this reason I can vaguely understand why Wetherspoon's pubs have large non-smoking areas: but isn't the anti-social element here to do with health risk, rather than a subjective idea of discomfort, which banning swearing must be based on? And if this is true then there are many anti-social characteristics exhibited by pub-goers which should take precedence over the odd use of colourful language: people who smell, single pub goers or couples who take up a massive table or booth leaving others nowhere to sit, those hideously ingratiating plastic rose sellers, people who piss all over the floor in the gents. I could go on and on before I get to swearers.
I know a lot of people find swearing tedious. For those that don't, like me, this website is enjoyable.