Croppers... those that didn't help. And other tales.

Yes, you know who you are; the beardy old bastard with the stupid yellow hat, the over suntanned wife and the vile Golden Virginia roley's who insisted on standing in front of the seating area for three quarters of the Zappa tribute set blocking the views to the screen. Next time, go to the front where you're supposed to stand, you selfish old git. And in case you don't, I'm bringing a good supply of throwing stars next year.

To the couple that shoved their fecking great enormous caravan into the camping field, and then shoved their fat great awning out of the side of it, leaving me a postage stamp to put my tent up on. Nazi's. How much room do you need to fecking annex for your fecking bunny-hutch? Isn't enough to piss off the entire population on the road, you've got to own all the grass in the campsites too? Not got enough Lebensraum? Bastards. I hope Clarkson gets you and all your kind.

Ah, feel better for that.

Got a text the other day from my item of missing kit. "Dear Mike, gone on my holidays. Will send postcards. Yrs, Harry the Hat". That'll be my battered old festival hat, left in the tent of my good muckers of old, Ginger Chris and Sharpshooter Sal to dry off after a particularly heavy downpour, and clearly forgotten. Well, not forgotten as such, more like they're much more efficient than I when it comes to packing up and clearing off a campsite on Sunday morning! Clearly it's time I shifted myself down to Surrey for another drinking weekend to claim Harry back. Or maybe I should leave him down there and see just how many worldwide diving trips he goes on before I get around to the rescue! And speaking of the Cropredy Cohorts, what can I say about a certain long haired individual, maybe to be known as Braveheart herafter after his personal Dunkirk moment; ie a rapid evacuation in trying conditions? I think a veil should be drawn over any allegations of chemical splashback and blue arses and you'll hear no more of it here... ahem....