It's always funny until someone gets hurt... and then it's just hilarious...

Finally, my A to Z of the Reading Festival 2009 (abridged)

A is for alcohol: The best way for any self-respecting tweenie to celebrate their spectacular exam results (see P) is to consume enough shite booze to kill a trailer-trash redneck alcoholic. No listening to the young folks grinding away at each other at night; no, far more fun to listen to them discuss loudly how they'd managed to puke in the tent every morning. This year's special guest appearance - Tuborg Pear Cider. Yummy.

B is for butscratcher: This year's funny funny funny phrase to be shouted at any available passers by at any available opportunity. And trust me, there's shit loads of both. If Seth MacFarlane had walked past (and had I known what he looks like) I would have popped his eyeballs out and skull-fucked him with the sweating pepparami we found under the flysheet on Sunday morning.

C is for comedy: Yup, Reading isn't just about shit bands and drunk kids, it also has a comedy stage. Tim Minchin was funny. Had I not found the Faith No More line I would have titled this piece using his line "we're all just monkeys in shoes." Even if that is unfair to both monkeys and shoes.

D is for ...DaveDaveDaveDaveDave... : That's Mr David Grohl to you sunshine. The patron godfather of Reading and cheered uproariously every time his grinning face appeared on the screens as he watched stage-side. Figuring out where the 'secret' appearance of Them Crooked Vultures was, was tough. "Why's there a big gap on the NME stage line up on Saturday? Dunno. OK, perhaps there's someone shit on the main stage instead."

E is for emergency evac: This is what you have to do on Sunday night after the incredible transformation of the Reading crowd from High School Musical into Lord of the Flies and the fires grow bigger and the crowd dancing around them turns feral and aerosol cannisters start getting thrown on, then any nearby tents, then anything that's going to cause a cloud of toxic fumes to hang low over the Reading camp site like some fucked up version of the egg scene in Alien and you realise that your lovely new tent is next in line for the Wicker Kids, or at the very least to be crushed to death by the drunken hordes of tweenies singing the National Anthem. Thank you to the super speedy removal team.

F is for flesh: Acres of it. If it could be legally displayed, it was out there. Most of it aged between 16 and 18 and that can get a little disturbing after a while (especially if you're a teacher - see N). The smurfs challenged me to get a picture of an exposed arse hanging out the back of a micro skirt or somesuch. Took a 2.1 days to get the shot. Took about 2.1 seconds before the first one passed by. Damn they move fast.

G is for ghosts: OK, so I know I hadn't slept, was 'somewhat' under the influence and wired to the max post emergency evac (see E), but... Look, just but, it was fucking weird ok!

H is for Holy Fuck!: The expression that must have been on my face when the giant catapault launched water bomb came heading straight towards me. I moved with the speed of a spitting cobra and the grace of Oliver Reed on After Dark (you can look that one up yourself if you don't know what I'm talking about).

I is for I never want to camp at Reading again: Something I last said in '95. I'll listen to me better next time.

K is for Kumbya: When Bob set off to start a cult. Dont ask (see R)

L is for lineup: Not one of Reading's best.

N is for neighbours: Everybody needs good ones. We had some diamonds. So to Ross, Ross, Ross's buddy Mike/Carl/?, the Cornwall couple, Ed the homophobe and his gay tent mate, thank you for the laughs both intentional and otherwise.

O is for the other bands I saw (see T): Gaslight Anthem, Gossip, Glasvegas, Maximo Park, Deftones, Eagles of Death Metal, Them Crooked Vultures, The Prodigy, Rival Schools. Have I missed anyone?

P is for passes: Everyone passed, be it GCSE or A-Level. Well everyone bar the one guy who didn't. I reckon 80% of the audience had just taken an exam of some kind. The other 20% were wandering about thinking: "Great, shame there's no fucking jobs a ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha..."

R is for requests: As is "Does anyone have any requests?" A question asked at 7.30 on Friday morning by our over eager guitar playing companion leading to the best come back of the weekend: "Yeah, shut the fuck up!" I laughed and went back to sleep.

S is for smurfs: I would festival with the smurfs again. Just not at Reading.

T is for the top ten bands of the weekend: So in order it's:

1. Faith No More: brutal and brilliant, ferocious and funny, far and away the best and heaviest band of the weekend by a few miles. A bonus extra three places for dropping in the Eastenders theme. We sang, we danced, we jumped up and down, we shouted, we wondered why the tent was a third empty and laughed at all the idiots complaining about how Kings of Leon threw a strop. Was it worth the 20 year wait? Fuck yeah!
   
2. 
   
3. 
   
4. 
   
5. Radiohead: mellowed out hits heavy set even if you couldn't hear it for the noise of the grass growing - see V.
6. Gallows: Climb tent pole. Dive into crowd. Throw yourselves around the place. Be thoroughly entertaining. Arctic Monkeys take note - having clever words doesn't make you worth watching when you're fucking boring.
   
7. Snuff: Arsehole, Soul Limbo, Sunny Places, Nick Motown, see W. "Oi Oi". 15 years I've waited to see 'em again, bless their lovely socks of undefined fabric and trombone.
8. Jamie T and Friendly Fires equal: never heard anything by either of you before but damn you were entertaining.
9. Leftover Crack: not jut a great name.
   
10. Crystal Castles: you scared me and I didn't know what was happening and couldn't talk or dance or anything but I think you might have been excellent even though I'm not sure.

U is for, actually you know what, I'm not going there. But for the record smokey smurf I have the pictures.

V is for volume: There have been many complaints about the volume on the Reading main stage. Put it this way. If you were standing between more than two feet from the crowd barier and the mid-field speakers, the sound disappeared if someone farted on stage. This is why it's better to see bands in one of the tents. That and you don't have to suffer Placebo or Kaiser Chiefs.

W is for Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads: The theme from. Just might have been the moment of the weekend.

Come back unchanged your demons all tamed

I'm not sure if the doctor would have specified south west Cornwall, but it did the trick.

I hadn't realised how bad I'd been until I realised how relaxed I'd become.

So a week's camping was to be had, Friday to Saturday at a very pleasant site in St. Hilary, north east of Penzance. Larger urban environments were avoided as were over-crowded beaches. Instead cliff paths and rugged coastline was followed, staircases cut into rocks climbed, dilapidated farmhouses clambered over and an afternoon was spent getting sunburned watching The Crucible at the most excellent Minack theatre. Rowena Cade, we salute you.


Local fish was eaten, battered, with chips, and breakfasts were cooked on the camping stove. And I was roundly thrashed 4 sets to 1 at backgammon. But it was a hard fought victory. No dishonour there...

And at least on one night I was able to lie looking up at the stars and listen to what's fast becoming my favourite album of the year: The Low Anthem's Oh My God Charlie Darwin. I think I recognised scorpio. Unfortunately the regular cloud cover kept the meteor show hidden from view.

It was a little sad to finally retire the old silver space tent after 20 years, 2 continents, 5 countries and 10 festivals but the new one was a veritable mansion in whatever they make tents out of these days.

Anyway, photographs are here.

It's fun being back on the bike again.

Whisky, weed and Warren Zevon, it's the little things in life

I have no fucking idea where July's gone. Or most of June for that matter.

Nothing to do with the above recipe, that's a line from Californication, a gentle and touching tale of a guy who loves girl and their daughter, graphic sex, nudity, drug taking, drinking, S&M, blasphemy, great music and squirting. Life's a bit gooey from time to time but any show that beats in time to the tunes of Warren Zevon has to have a good heart.

So I've definitely been way busier than usual and somewhat internet phobic. I'd blame work for the latter but I suspect it's proably more to do with American TV.

I am aware that no matter how much shit I have missed (argh, sorry), I have managed to catch up with a lot of friends I haven't seen in far too long. And despite a worryingly and annoying distinct lack of festival camping this summer, some of it was outdoors with too much sun and pear cider and the gentle tones of Neil Young and Blur drowning out the foreground and the central London Heathrow flightpath in the background.

One side effect of such a state was the purchase of Florence and the Machine's album which was a good thing. On the other hand I also think that the best film I've seen of late has been Crank 2. That means either I've watched a lot of shit, or I can't remember what I've seen, or the logic I use to determine that Crank 2's utter genius is based around the fact that it's all done in such gleefully knowing bad taste, is deeply fucking disturbed. History will judge me fairly I'm sure.

Actually, that's a lie. The best film I've seen in ages has been The Story of Anvil in which two hairy Canadians deliver more of a message on the beauty of friendship and humanity than any politician or religious leader in the past 190 billion years. Of course, I still haven't seen the Iron Maiden movie so that may change. But seriously you tiny select group of reader(s) out there. Go see it. NOW. It'll make you a better human being.

Crank 2 was the second best until my memory returns.

Unfortunately our current lack of promised heatwave has kept Chuffy unpainted. On the other hand I have learned a little more about electricity. There's an intentional lack of context in the last statement for no particular reason. I've also learned that riding a bike is just like what they say about riding a bike. And I love my new bike. Very much. I'm a muddy little two wheel speed freak. The image that just brought to mind made me cringe.

And just to gloat, even though I know you don't care and if you do then you shouldn't - don't put up with my petulant glee at proving my head is full of absurd knowledge - I've been on two winning pub quiz teams, grand total of winnings in hand at the end of the night: £40 and all drinks paid for.


I will endeavour to blog more in my 39th year.

Me my thoughts are flower strewn

It's been seven weeks since I woke up with my foot inflated like some giant baby, all stubby toes and puffy. Amazing what a hairline crack, invisible to x-ray can do.

The first three weeks were spent as immobile as possible, watching perspective disappear over the horizon as cabin fever took hold. Since then it's been a slow crawl to the six week bone healed mark.

It'll be another three weeks at least before I consider running again.

Note to self, need to buy new running shoes.

Listening to R.E.M.'s Find The River

I said ah welcome to the show!

I may not have been at Glastonbury this year, but I was very happy everywhere I was.

This afternoon I watched fledgling swifts loop through the air above me. It'll be another three to four years before they touch land again. Below them a pachyderm parade of Canada Geese followed their Colonel Hathi down the river whilst a grebe gargled at them and the coots shifted themselves out of the way. They look to be down to three squeakies now.



Listening to Def Leppard's remastered Pyromania