Virgin' on the ridiculous

To set the scene; an old joke.....

"If Star Wars was set in Essex"

Chewbacca would look roughly the same except he'd only be about 5ft tall, from Basildon and called Spanner. He'd have the same amount of body hair but would also have tattoos, would permanently smell of drink and invariably sport either a West Ham or England top.

Obi-Wan Kenobi would invariably be referred to as Chief or Cocker by his mates. People trying to start a fight with him would address him as Oi W*nky-Nobby.

R2D2 would refuse to go out on the streets after 10pm because of the number of drunks who would try to stuff chip papers in his head casing, or urinate on him. He would also refuse to go near groups of young kids at any time because of the high risk of being spray painted and/or dumped in front of aspeeding train and/or set on fire.

Darth Vader would be referred to as 'Elmit Head' or in moments of stress 'that dome-edded c**t'.

Although proficient in over 3500 languages C3P0 would still be unable to understand anything anyone from Essex said. He would regularly get beaten up for being a knacker-faced poof from Rayleigh.

The Millennium Falcon would have static strips, tinted windscreens and extra-flared exhaust ports. It would have a St. George's Cross SUN SUPPORTS OUR BOYS bumper sticker.

Princess Leia would get captured by Darth Vader because it's hard to run very fast when you're wearing 5-inch platform heels and a tiny silver mini-skirt which keeps hiking up over your arse every two steps. And you've been a heavy smoker since you were 6.

The best way to destroy the Death Star would not be a desperate all out attack with small fighter ships. Two easy ways would be to alter its orbit so it passed through Southend seafront, tell the locals it was full of Northern monkeys; or leave it unattended in the Safeway car park.

Lines from the film as they would be now uttered in the Essex:-

Han Solo - 'I've got a real bad feeling about this'
Translation: '****, I'm c**t-faced. I think I should go home before I getin a fight'

Han Solo - 'Bring 'em on! I prefer a straight fight to all this sneaking around.'
Translation 'Come on you facking *******s, al 'ave the lot of yer'

Han Solo - 'Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid.'
Translation 'Bugger the mumbo - wot I needs is me baseball bat and several facking sharp knifes'

Darth Vader trying to shoot down Luke Skywalker - 'The Force is strong inthis one'
Translation 'You're a facking hard b*stard'

Princess Leia - 'This bucket of bolts is never going to get us past that blockade.'
Translation 'We knackered in this Capri'

Admiral Motti - 'Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerer's ways, LordVader.'
Translation 'You think you're that hard, you northern fat f*ck face w*nker'

Luke to the Emperor -'Your overconfidence is your weakness.'
Translation 'You fink you're well 'ard dunch ya'


I don't much like Essex.

Isn't the first time I've been down in the south east and felt not at home any more. Although to a degree I'm travelled enough that a field with a stage is just another field, these folks down here are quite alien. I've felt more at home in Slovenia; in Yorkshire and god help me, even Lincolnshire. Down there, they're all too noisy, too much to say. Too many noisy, contemptible people, too little time, too few bullets. Don't even think that they realise that Parklife's taking the piss out of them. Certainly the video. Yet for peope who talk too much, they look at you like you've shat in the street if you actually; a stranger; talk to them. Maybe I'm used to Northern manners. No bad thing if you ask me.

Didn't get off to a good start; been doing a run of earlies at the fun factory and I'd not been able to get the time off beforehand to get myself down to Ippo the night before for a nice easy run down; and it was impossible to get the Friday off too; a couple of folks taking sick knackered that for me. So it was working the shift, doing a job or two in town... Baz the bike needed the engine out of the Kwakker so that had to be done... then chucking a piece or two in the bag, grabbing some booze to take and jumping in the funbuggy to head south. 265 miles on the clock from the time of leaving to the time of arriving... I'd thought the GPS's chosen route was pants, so over-ruled it.... big mistake; long story short it was a hateful journey, punctuated by sleep breaks. The good news was that it gave me CD time, proved that the Mad Agnes cd's I bought at Croppers were a good beer purchase, and not rubbish like I've bought before when ale'd and happy. The folks who held my ticket and car park pass were akip by the time I arrived in Essex, so I headed down the road to Margaretting, pulled into a side road and went head down for a few hours.

Up with the lark and sending text messages at the appropriate reasonable hour; I already knew to head for the red car park to head for so made my way there, to be told by a long haired herbert in a fluro' tabard that I couldn't go there, and must go to the purple park at the opposite end of the park. Bah. That meant a long long stomp with the world's heaviest holdall; no tent to carry, but dossbag, and now fully functional airbed and pump, plus all the beer in the world. Must have been thirty kilo's at least. Absolutely cracked at the end of the stroll, seems I'm not as stompy fit as I once was. But then we all know that. As it turned out, the beer was useless due to the fact that V security don't all glass bottles into the camps, we'd forgotten to bring anything to decant them into and I'm too prejudiced to allow myself to buy horrid nasty canned drinks.

Dumped the holdall in the Kev'mobile, cracked a bottle open in defiance of the spirit of regulation and tipped another into the tankard and off to the camp to meet Kev's comfyshoe lady friends who's company I've had the pleasure of before. The tents are jammed in tightly; gives an entirely new meaning to the phrase "concentration camp" but I suspect it's not PC to say that. Oh well. They've even got sentry towers. No, really. All they need is the MG34's on a pintle mount and a storm trooper helmet on the security bloke.

Here's the odd thing, unlike Croppers I've spent the majority of this festival sober; pissing it up on my own stuff's not an option as it's all stashed; they won't let my hip flask in, we're way too lazy to keep trolling back to the cars; and I refuse to drink the over priced rubbish sold by the sponsor, Carling. No, no, no. So it's dry, which is no bad thing for once. Arrrgh! Maturity? Be afraid!!

So it's another stroll from red camp and into the arena; a big old place, five or so stages... only a couple of which I will ever bother with. Plenty of shopping, plenty of food, most of which I will not bother with and lets face it, if I chow down as I might I'd be fifty stone and skint. As opposed to eighteen stone and skint. Ahem. A gem or two though; a couple of new T-shirts procured and the Square Pie stand gets the nod as the food choice of the weekend; although the Chinese gave me the opportunity to play with disposable chopsticks. Ludicrous queues for the booze tokens and the bar... what is it with the British? That they HAVE to drink at a social occasion, even when the odds are so stacked? And they'll drink rubbish. They'd drink their own urine if Carling's advertising were good enough. Even if I liked the stuff, I don't think my liver's so hardened and inflated that I couldn't do without a bevvie for a day if the odds were so incredibly stacked against me. It was absolute madness.

And anyway, the queue for the wine stand was so much shorter :o)

So.......... music. Five stages, impossible to do everything, don't want to either. Kev had printed off intineries, so no need to buy one of those plastic coated card sets and neck lanyards that they sell. Yay! A tenner saved! Strolled in just in time to catch the end of the Proclaimers set... think I should add them to the list of bands I want to see in their own right; always quite liked them to be honest. Does that cost me a hundred credibility points? Of course they've got their own romper stomper set finisher and we all know what that is, and indeed they finished with it so nothing unpredictable there. Wandered over via lunch to catch a bit of The Thrills, whom I'd heard an interview with on Radio 2 a few weeks back and they were jolly enough, before it was off to the JJB tent to catch Sinead O'Connor who I don't mind spending time to see at all, think she dislikes the world more than I do so not necessarily a jolly set but a bloody good one and the audience, although large wasn't worthy of her; they didn't liven up until she played "nothing compares 2u"... thanks to Ms Winehouse's system cracking under the strain, she didn't show up to play ("gonna make me go to rehab, I say yes, yes, yes") and the timing of this tent was all gone to cock as a result; thus Sinead extended her set by twenty minutes or so, and the moron's were stressing because somebody called "Dizzee Rascal" should have started his / her / it's / I dunno set and and was showing no sign of doing so. Moron's. My first seethe of the festival. So onwards from the tent of fools to the Channel 4 stage where it's time to see another fool; Babyshambles. You know, if Pete Docherty ever gives up the drugs and the lifestyle of destruction, I swear the bottom will fall out of his record sales overnight. I don't belive for a second that people go for the songs which are average at best, but for the morbid curiosity of what the chemical dump is going to do next. Maybe explode on stage? As it was, it wasn't a bad set. He was his usual blunted self, pretty enjoyable but god help us if he ever starts acting like a professional. Afterwards, caught a bit of Ocean Colour Scene; they're a band who do what they do very well, but personally just don't flip my switches, I *like* them, they're very good; they just don't move me in any way at all. So I mooched at the back and waited for the next band to come on; it would appear that many thousand people don't share my apathy. Good for OCS. Their income would be a bit knackered if that were the case. As it was, the crowd was packed, singing, and even singing as they left. Which was nice.

And time for Jarvis, of the family Cocker. For a skinny bloke from Sheffield with floppy hair and a very dodgy pair of glasses, he puts on a helluva show; a glorified stepper on top of the monitor speakers for him to prance on in a bizarre "crane" kung fu styleey before belting out some damned good songs, most of which to my shame I didn't know; that's the problem with Croppers and V - they do tend to muck up my CD purchase plans for the rest of the year. Fashionable he is not. And he knows it. And he plays on it. And I know full well that it's ungrammatical to start a sentence with "and". Tough. I liked him. He's a bit like Morrissey to my mind; really good live, even though he really SHOULDN'T be. Experienced enough to know that his weaknesses are actually his strengths. Another for the "look out for a solo tour" list. Caught a little bit of Happy Mondays on the way to the main stage.... I mean, I can't believe Bez is STILL getting paid for that dancing he does. He's rubbish. Really. But they seemed ok, then onto the main stage for Foo Fighters, who believe it or not, although I've been following them for EEEEEK years; I've never seen live. Had the chance in 2002, but I went to a bike show with an ex instead and in fairness, found a crash helmet that fitted which is a rarity for me. So, the Foo's.... just HOW does Dave Grohl manage to not drop a note; not sing a bum line; not step out of role by one degree all night and at the end of it all, make it look so EASY !!! It's not fair. That much talent in one human being. And to add insult to injury, by all accounts he's one of the nicest and grounded human beings in music; sneaked out an unannounced acoustic set on one of the smaller stages earlier today, shame I missed that. DAMNED good show. Lots of tracks from The Colour and the Shape; my fav' of their old albums, the one that's got the best emotional hook for me. I felt a bit out of it though, and a little sterile where I was stood, towards the rear of the gig. Maybe to watch for one of their indoor shows, go forward and get a bit more atmosphere without the claustrophobia of being at the front of this sea of people; they're touring in November. Birthday treat maybe. My god, how did I ever get to be staring down both barrels of thirty seven?

SUNDAY.... festival standard, I should be feeling like my head's been caved in with a beer barrel at this point. I'm not. The glass bottle ban, my laziness in not being arsed to retrieve bevvies from the car as I need them and the fact that my hip flask of single malt just isn't doing it for me is biting, but that's no bad thing. But instead of the hangover, every one's confined to tent anyway. The weather is miserable, it's chundering down with rain and it seems set in. G'ah. A good job that books DID make it as far as my bag. Polished off my latest Le Carre purchase waiting for the hour to come where it's necessary to slop my way back through the mud to music central; then let down the air bed, stowed all the gear back in the holdall; and took my route to the gig via the car park, as my road was straight home afterwards and into work at six the following day, unlike most of the other folks who get to overnight for a second one. Bah. Damned be the job. The problem was of course, this involved a trip to the car on the way in; which meant to find the guy and gals again I had to hitch up with them inside the arena which turned out to be impossible. All mobile phone commss in that arena are dodgy at best; text's tend to stack up and only come through ten minutes after you've left; or delay by hours and direct voice comms just don't happen. I presume it's down to overload on the masts, or something equally techhy. Anyway, it meant another day mooching on my own which was a bit of a bummer; solo at festivals is no fun, I always maintain that any experience is lessened if there's nobody there to share it with. Add to that the fact that I'm never generally at my best when I'm hemmed in fifty deep just in getting from A to B, and the fact that I really don't like the smell of cannabis, and damnit I was sober; I was getting a bit grouchy at times. Felt pretty alone, and damn these drunken festival'llers who all want to use MY bit of air as a thoroughfare - get there on time or stand at the back, you bastards. More time to get grumpy at the commercial rip off nature of V compared to Croppers, or even the Isle of Wight.

Buy, buy, buy, buy, buy.

Bye!!!

Not my scene, that. The phrase "too old and maybe even too wise for that sh*t" springs to mind. In fact by now you'll be getting the impression that I don't much like the V festival. You'd not be far off actually; it's just the excellent music and mates that brings me back. Which lets face it, is the reason for going there in the first place, so hey ho.

So.... the day's entertainment.... best T-shirt of the day, a draw between "Finish your pint, there's sober kids in Africa" and "London smells of piss", both of which drew a chuckle. The music for me kicked off with Marc Ronson, the latest wunderkind who's ticket to A list fame and fortune is a covers album and a Smiths cover. Ronson himself? Middle class, white, amazingly self congratulatory and up his own arse, probably likes to think of himself as a hip-hop Jools Holland with a big band. I'm afraid I took an instant and major dislike to the bloke. A "re-imagining" of Sulk by Radiohead doesn't help. Leave "The Bends" alone. Step away from the classic album. Nothing for you to do here. Mind you, the vocalist on the "Stop me if you've heard this one before" cover is excellent and deserves a future somewhere in soul.

Ain't no way I'm going to see McFly, so strolled over to catch a bit of the Fratelli's, another new big thing that's getting lots of airplay. Jolly songs, nicely played but they're not really flipping my switches for me in any big way; I stroll across to the Channel 4 stage and it's time for Mika who should at least be interesting. Well, for starters I approve of his inflatable plastic pal. Didn't I once date her?

Apologies for the awful picture quality, I was down to using digital zoom and that's always dreadful. I also approved of the supersized dancing girls in identical costumes to Rosie here who came on for "big girls, you are beautiful"; I approved of aforementioned dancing girls coming back on in pink dresses with bunny ears, complete with about a dozen dancers in animal costumes, giant rabbits and the such dancing around for the incredibly camp finale, the predictable "Grace Kelly"; I approved of our squeaky singer; in fact, oddly for my tastes, the whole show which was as camp as a row of tents gets a "Mike came here and said it was good" rating, bloody good entertainment. Maybe a watchout for more live shows.

And onto Lilly Allen. Look, I didn't set out to see her set; I just bought a plate of noodles and had to sit down to eat them as it was a plastic fork job, not chopsticks as I was hoping. I'm aware she's very popular with some folks and who am I to criticise that? But lets be clear about this; a posh voiced rich girl singing about bedsit life and crummy boyfriends in lager pubs on housing estates; in a mockney accents is fraud. "Everybody at the front dance, I've never had a mosh pit before". Awwww sweetheart, wouldn't daddy buy you one? I've been in proper mosh pits, if you saw one you'd shit yourself. What's that Morrissey lyric from Reader meet author?

"You don't know a thing about their lives; they live where you wouldn't dare to drive; you shake as you think of how they sleep; but you write as if you all lie side by side"

Anyway. I think she's false. I don't like her. At all. Competent enough show, I just think her act stinks. And she swears way too much and that also feels false. I smiled when the yank passport control banned her; wish ours would too.

But that's OK, I finished my noodles and was able to scuttle off to watch James who were different in that I actually WANTED to see them. "Sit down" is on the list of songs to be played at my funeral, it's just that cool. For some reason I consider Tim Booth a very very very cool human being indeed; I loved his Judas in the Manchester Passion a year or so back, even though I was shouting the old Suzanne Charlton joke "eat some FOOOOD" at the TV whenever he was on. I can't explain why he appeared to be wearing a skirt at V; but I can confirm he was thumbing noses at the fun police all over the place; with a spot of very forbidden crowd surfing, and breaking the imposed ban on inviting the audience up on stage during their set to dance by sneaking out before their set and inviting lots of them backstage in secret to do it anyway. Heheh. That's my sort of rock star. And I love their songs. All in all a very cool set indeed. They've only done a few, since reforming in a limited style and I think they're going to be well worth looking out for, hope they keep it up.

So the day's ending. Most of these guys here are staying for the full setlist but I don't have the option. For starters, I don't really care for The Killers who are headlining on the main stage; Basement Jaxx could tempt, but the bottom line is I need to be on the road and heading north by half nine; at the coalface for six in the morn'. Two hundred miles to cover. I watched a little bit of Kasabian who seem to be one of the acts of the moment, who were competent enough but didn't really ring my bells; then strolled over via the Manic Street Preachers who did their thing and did it well... although it's a little bit of a question why this famously anti militaristic band are all wearing forces surplus in some way shape or form; then onto my final act of the festival, and the rocking'est is saved til last.

And the oldest. If I'm still giving out that sort of energy at that age, I shall have been downwind of a cocaine storage warehouse explosion at some point. I don't do it NOW! I've never done it! Iggy Pop. The guy's a freakin' marvel, and a very good use of an hour of my time. Spray on jeans still at half mast; still not wearing underwear; still can't seem to afford a shirt (put it away man, you're sixty one!); still roaring about like a punk monster generator on amphetamene; climbing the stage structure, and "Iggy fishing" going on as the roadie's desparately up on stage trying to feed him mic' cable for yet another foray into the audience. I'm stood there with a shit eating grin on my face fully realising I've not seen a commited performance to match since I saw Ozzy in '91 at Brixton; Theatre of Madness mini tour, before he turned into a fat shaking "clown prince of darkness". There and now, I was aware I was watching genius at work. Songs, not clever. Brutally effective, not clever, but they don't need to be more. The whole package is very very cool indeed and it's the right way to finish, because it's time to go.

Then the stroll out of the site and the drive home; just water and sweets to sustain me; a better route selected. In fact the usual route from Ipswich to here; just with the A12 from Chelmsford thrown in, about two hundred miles. But hell, I was tired. I seem to have set a "falling asleep at the wheel but not crashing" record of some kind; there were two separate occaisions on a route I've driven so many times that I thought I could do it with my eyes shut that I realised I actually had. Two "Where am I and how the hell did I get here" moments. And with one of them, I still don't know!

Damned if I can work it out . Back in one piece though, and nobody died so I guess that's alright then. Ahem!