This Is England 86

I've been working as a photographer's agent a couple of days a week this year. Old habits die hard, and if it's ever a bit quiet on the styling front, it's always good to know that there's a bit of spends coming in. I was lucky enough to be approached by the sharp wit and all-round good woman Tanya of Blunt London to lend a hand when the lovely Ailsa left to have her sprog. Maternity leave has turned into something a bit more permanent and I'm pretty thrilled. Having said I never really wanted to go back to agenting, it's a joy to work with this lot and I actually look forward to going to work at a desk in an office (it's a very nice office, the teamaking skills are exemplary, and there's quality swearing which suits me rather well).

Tanya represents Dean Rogers, a rather brilliant photographer, who is the chronicler in stills of all Shane Meadows' film work. I bloody love Shane Meadows' work. Shane and Dean are old friends and Dean has recently shot the promotional posters for the Channel 4 serial, "This Is England '86":

Watched the 3rd episode of TIE 86. Dean had told me that Shane hadn't directed the first two, which seemed to be played a bit more for laughs. Episode 3 started off like a barrel of laughs too (Gadgy as Clark Gable in THAT arran jumper and pencil moustache), but ended up like a barrel of misery (a truly horrific rape scene), only completed by the reappearance of Combo. Now, why do I think that Lol's daddy-o will be getting his comeuppance in next week's final part? Superb acting, funny, dark, excellent soundtrack. Unmissable.

End Of The Road 5: Small And Perfectly Formed

Leaves on the ground, chill in the air, Nick Drake in my ears: Autumn's here. Hooray! I love to bask in the sun as much as the next girl, but there's something a bit special about this season for me. So surely it's a good idea to go up the country and listen to lots of lovely tunes played by brilliant musicians, whilst swigging booze and knocking about with your mates? This year, there were doubts about my attendance at End Of The Road festival. Ever since first winning a pair of tickets to the festival back in 2007 (I reckon We Got Tickets felt obliged to let me win, I spend so much of my hard-earned on their site), it's become a feature of my Autumn entertainment season. But with distractions from Down Under swept away, the deal was done (acres of bunting changed hands for two tickets) and the tent and wellies were chucked in Betty Ford.

Picked Nads up from work (her final day - the Prosecco I bought her as a treat to start her new life went down a treat - Motorhead's Ace Of Spades blasting out in the car park - the ONLY way to start your new life as dole scum):

Cigarettes And Alcohol

There'd been a leak about Mark Lanegan doing a short set with Isobel Campbell at 7.15pm on the Thursday. No matter that this girl racer put the pedal to the metal, we still couldn't get there in time. Drat and double drat. Got to the box office to get our guest passes - "names not down, you're not coming in"!!! Had to call Howard, who swiftly sorted it for us with Queen Of Guestlist, the fierce but funny Wendy, and the wristbands were issued. And then Kieran and Bernie appeared behind us. And then we found Steve as we watched a bit of Allo Darling. Perfect - the troops are assembled. And then, the envy of all who surveyed it: the carefully designed and much discussed fit-in-your-pocket timings for the entire weekend were dished out - bravo, Mr McG:

A Thing Of Beauty And Genius (the schedule, that is)

Putting tents up in the dark isn't so easy for some as it is for me. I have a 3 man pop-up tent - one flick of my wrist and there you have it, home for the weekend. Nads managed to get her tent up, but not in any way the manufacturers would have intended. This didn't really become evident until the next day - poles in all the wrong holes (that's not the start of the double entendres, folks). Soon fixed, Friday was a lovely day. Countryfile (BBC programme, all about nature and...erm, well, the country) had suggested on the longterm weather forecast that the weather would be SHITE. The word 'torrential' was mentioned several times. Wrong again, Auntie Beeb.

I decided to have a massage. Now, this isn't the norm for me at a festival. I'm there for the tunes and the tunes alone, but it had been a pretty shitty week and I felt the need for a bit of relaxation. Had a wander with Nads in the Healing Garden (it all sounds a bit wanky but it's lovely) and got chatting to this fella called Adam, who did healing Thai yoga massage. I wasn't sure what this would entail but I decided to give it a go, as I reckoned a bit of healing wouldn't go amiss. Booked a session for 4pm, Nads booked one for 5pm. Wandered off and took in a bit of CW Stoneking (very 1920 New Orleans, hilarious banter inbetween songs), and then the very brilliant fingerpicking blues of Charlie Parr. First saw Charlie in a record shop in Sydney and was pretty much blown away by him. Even in this huge natural theatre, he held the crowd captive. Good stuff:

Superlative Mr Parr

When I arrived for my massage, Adam was waiting outside his tipi. He lay me down on a furry rug (it could have all gone a bit Barbarella, but I had my jeans and shirt on...) and I closed my eyes. And then he proceeded to do all sorts of stuff to me. And I mean ALL sorts...this sort of massage isn't just hands on - it's BODY on stuff. At one point, he was sort-of bumming me (can I say that???) with my legs over his. Reminiscent of a position I have assumed in the past...but I digress. Bit by bit, I really did relax and float away. An hour slipped by in what seemed like moments...and then it was over. I honestly felt pretty spaced out and very relaxed. When I eventually got up, Adam said I was a natural (what at? being bummed?) and had really gone with his moves. I waited for Nads to appear, then wandered off in my euphoric daze.

Caught up with Howard Local at his fancy new Big Top stage (red and blue stripes, soon to be adorned with the finest bunting money or ticket-swap can get). Howard introduced me to his very charming and funny Dad (now I know where he gets it from) and his best friend Paul, who's a bit of a dry wit. Have a laugh with the lads and watch a bit of Trembling Bells (great in parts, but occassionally a bit too 'hey nonny' for me). And then a real find - Walsh & Pound. Banjo and harmonica. Harmonica dude looked like a little scally, played his harp like a demon, and even made it sound like a sitar at one point. Superb.

Wolf People were one of my must-see bands of the weekend. When their flute player left the band a while back, I thought they'd lose it too, but oh no. They're just getting better and better. They played a blinding set to a packed tent, and they were even allowed to play an encore - bravo, Howard. Bit of aimless wandering ensued, goan fish curry (yuuuummmmm), bit of Plants and Animals, an incident with a pissed bloke who shall be known from here on as Pissed Bloke.

I first clocked Pissed Bloke as he staggered about near the Garden Stage, barely able to stand up, managing to fall on unsuspecting girls as they tried to steer clear. Pissed Bloke resurfaced for a quick lie down next to us while we had a sit down. And then the paramedics and site nurse appeared...and took Pissed Bloke away, because he was...well, just VERY pissed. After hooking up with Kieran, Bernie and Steve, we encountered Pissed Bloke again. He'd obviously shaken off his nursey shackles and was having a bit of a lie-down at his new home of the floor outside the Rough Trade tent. At one point, Pissed Bloke had a bit of a dancing head on and tried to dance with Nads and Steve (Steve is a bit of a dancer - the only event I regret not seeing all weekend was a pissed Steve on the Studio 54 lit-up dancefloor, and then threatening to do more moves dressed only in his underpants - it's the stuff of dreams, girls...). Pissed Bloke's moves with Steve ended up with Pissed Bloke being flung to the floor - all completely hilarious, I may have let a little bit of wee come out by accident...

Pissed Bloke 10pm

Pissed Bloke 11pm

We had a quick look at the open mic stage (the MC was an unfeasibly well-endowed lady in a basque - this prompted Steve to coin the catchphrase of the weekend "huuuuge KNOCKERS'). Socialising took over - time for the Tipi. Spent the rest of the night with the gang, The Local, the very funny Singing Adams Steve and Michael (Michael and I talked for about 2 hours but can't remember what about, but agreed the next day that it was a good chat) and I met a lovely artist called Leif Vollebekk. More chat, can't remember, possibly about Iceland (the place, not cheap frozen food shop)...and I saw Colin Heavy Load too! Great night, good company. Finished with me and Nads up talking until 5.30am...perfect first day.

The hangover that followed was NOT the highlight of the weekend. Thank fuck for beans, veggie sausages and the brilliant organisational skills of Bernie, that's all I can say. At a time like this, to have a mate who, even though she's probably in a world of pain all of her own, just gets on with cooking the grub and making sure everyone eats and drinks and gets better makes us some very lucky people. Bernie, I salute you.

I also salute her man of many years, the unfeasibly funny Kieran McG. I salute him for keeping us all well informed about his toilet habits throughout the weekend. To be told that he's just produced something "a bit like Ayers Rock" has to be one of the funniest things I heard all weekend. This was only bettered when he informed us all that he'd just given rectal birth to something that "looked a bit like a wet labrador, or one of those piebald patchy horses". Years back, when Kieran was taking a bit of time out from employment within advertising hell, his Friday PooBlog was a thing of marvel. The mail that went out telling us of the "small brown fish" he'd just set free in the toilet bowl squeezed tears of mirth from all who read it. Almost as many tears as the revelation that after one trip to the porcelain throne, he discovered an aftermath that looked like " the papery wings of moths". Spends too much time looking far too closely, that lad...

Sun shining down hot, a lot of laying about in the Garden Stage was in order. Having thought we'd all spend the entire weekend pissed wet through, this was proof that the festival gods love EOTR - it was cracking t'flags, as they say in my neck of the woods.

The first thing to register was Mr Matthew Houck (or maybe it was his arms in that black tshirt...). Phosphorescent first came onto my radar as support to Black Mountain at the Scala a couple of years ago. He was all on his lonesome back then, pared down sound and lovely lyrics, but now he has a great band and they ROCKED. Did plenty of the tunes off the 'For Willie' album too. Deer Tick had a quick jaunt on stage (more of therm later). Blew my cobwebs clean away. And those arms... (Sorry - I know it's such a girl thing to say, like "oooh, that Gary Lineker's got lovely legs" when watching the footy - BTW, I would NEVER say anything so ridiculous whilst watching the footy...but Nads and I agreed that the massage with Adam had definitely awakened the beast within):

Ok, so it's not strictly from EOTR,

but it sure is a purdy picture, yessir...

Caught a little bit of Moddi (flaxen haired angel boy, tiny bit odd, away with the fairies) - I missed the start of his set, which apparently had an audience round of applause for my bunting, which was now adorning The Local tent. Saw a bit of Citay (sunshine psych, great twiddly beeps and odd noises), but then I had a massive whitey and had to sit in the sun and just BREATHE. By the time I came round, Rick Tomlinson (Mr Seven Thunders) was playing in the Big Top. I was pleased to see the Black Mountain boys watching his set. He was quite pissed (his brother Paul told me) and pretty funny. Back to The Local for a bit of Oh Ruin. He really is growing on me very time I see him. Eoin has a gorgeous cracked Irish husky voice, plays his guitar in a loose, raw style, is funny and charming (and handsome too - and has an equally gorgeous talented girlfriend, both of whom it was a pleasure to have a drunken chat with on Friday - can't remember what about...I see a pattern forming here...)

More ligging about - who knew that Pot Noodle and a banana would be such a great hangover cure? And then in the magical twilight, we head to the Garden Stage for Iron and Wine. Nads didn't know his work, so I'd described him as "just beautiful music". And that's exactly what we saw. I take my hat off to his sound guy (or gal) - truly perfect:

Just Beautiful

I didn't really think my adoration of Black Mountain could grow any bigger, But blow me, it can. Got there 20 minutes early (überfan) and we were right up front. I honestly can't remember the last time I had the urge to do this at a gig. I'm more of a loiter-about-near-the-back kinda girl. Noticed a bloke standing next to me sporting 70s denim, great specs and an afro. So I introduce myself to Mr Will Hodgkinson, music journo and writer of Guitar Man, the story of one man's mission to master a lump of wood with 6 strings, and him meeting his heroes along the way - Johnny Marr (indie, jangly god), Bert Jansch (guitar plucking god, Pentangle genius and top bloke) and Davy Graham (RIP - I was lucky enough to see Davy play not long before he died, 'Folk Blues and Beyond' is a classic). We have a good chat, discovering a shared love of Black Mountain. But it's when I mention Dead Meadow, his little face lights up and he exclaims "now you're talking my language!"

I'm not going into one about Black Mountain's set here (what? why???). I've said it all before (apart from the sound wasn't so great but let's not split hairs). Let's just say this: THEY. ARE. FUCKING. AMAZING. (pardon my potty mouth, Mum).

Following that overexcitement, back to the Tipi tent, to hook up with Massimo from The Haberdashery (Massimo is hilarious - a tall, red-haired, brown-eyed charming Italian with a potty mouth to match my own, runs the best little café in Crouch End). End up sitting on a hay bale with Massimo and Howard's dad, discussing haberdashery, sewing and the whole make-do-and-mend phenemenon. Big fan of make-do-and-mend, me. Such a big fan that I manage to spread both my legs in the air to show them the make-do-and-mend that's gone on between my thighs (the patches on my jeans, I mean) with the exclamation "have a look at this". I honestly thought the lads were going to die laughing, and I think I may have blushed...and then, more hysterics as Mr Local was knocked off his hay high horse:

The Mighty Are Fallen

I also get to meet the very lovely Mia, partner to Lucy Local (a dead ringer for Joni Mitchell and no slouch with a tennis raquet, by all accounts). Sadly, Lucy isn't here to enjoy the fruits of The Local labours, as her other job at the Barbican has taken her Down Under to work on the Sydney festival. Our loss is definitely Sydney's gain...more booze followed and more waffle. And the company was lovely, the stars were twinkly outside in the darkness, and everything was just perfect.

Another day, another fuzzy head situation. Vague recollections of the previous night came back bit-by-bit, all good. Sunday is never going to be a day for dynamism. Steve and I head off in his car on a Tesco run (more booze? WHYYYYYYYY???????) and when we get back, Bernie has brekkie well in hand (let's hear it one more time for Bernie - hooray!). We don't really get to see much before Kath Bloom at 3pm. Kath is one of those artists from yesteryear revered by so many current favourites, and has been covered by my darling Bill Callahan with one of the most beautiful songs, you can watch him play it here from a Union Chapel show last year (this song just kills me every single time I hear it, and I think of my dear Dad):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giQrQgXyweQ&feature=related

Anyway, enough of all that soppy stuff - Kath Bloom is mental. Lovely songs, but she is just hilarious and shambolic and keeps stopping and saying stuff like "oh, I make lots of mistakes, me" and then saying "oh, that's not right" and having to start again. But completely lovely and she definitely has winning ways, and the tunes show she has a winning way with words too.

But now, I need waking up, so we all head off to partake of The Singing Adams. I'm forever waxing lyrical about the lyrical brilliance of Steven Adams. And as ever, he doesn't disappoint, and there's even a sing-a-long I approve of (and you know my usual feelings on that festival subject - it ranks up there with clap-a-longs, bongos, glowsticks and children still up after 8pm). A bit of a liedown in the field with a cup of coffee and strains of a really beautiful guitar tuning up and practising are coming from The Local tent. It's Leif Vollebekk, who I was lucky enough to meet on Friday. He has such a sweet voice, and he loops his violin and guitar on one tune so beautifully it gives me goosebumps. And he's borrowed the guitar from another artist (I think it was a Gibson ES-335 - I heard a man playing swing jazz on one once and the sound was so gorgeous, I had to ask him what guitar he was playing), and when as his final song he plays a Ray Charles song, I have a little tear in my eye (it could have been the pain of the hangover, but it wasn't...):

Lovely Leif (what is that guitar?)

Once he's finished, there's a bit of sitting around outside the tent, and I catch up with Michael Singing Adams after his set. They'd had a ball, and it was good to see him so relaxed, reckon he'd been a bit nervous beforehand. Caught a bit of the Felice Brothers, bit of Olof Arnalds - sweet looking, blonde ringlets, Björkish, and as Kieran said " a hint of the serial killer about her" - little bit Red Riding Hood, little bit Singing Ringing Tree, quite enchanting.

One of the events of the weekend happened entirely by accident. Gone to the Tipi to see Deer Tick. So far, so good. They started playing - whisky soaked, rocking blues. All still good. Then about 4 songs in, all the power goes off. ALL the power. Lights, sound, the lot. And here's where talent shows. A packed Tipi in complete darkness, Deer Tick managed to totally hold the attention of the entire crowd, as they continued to play, beautiful harmonies, acoustic guitar, did a walkabout whilst playing to us, all lit only by lighters and a few torches. Impromptu brilliance and another sing-a-long which incorporated a round of Silent Night - Christmas carols in September? Top stuff:

Flashlight Procession

Racked up at The Local to see the tail end of The London Snorkelling Team. It's as if The League Of Gentlemen has a house band, and they seem to be holding a seance on stage. Very funny, they have men who play 'projector', which brings us the "Boob Or Nose?" challenge, where to the strange and wonderful electronica they create, you get to shout "boob" or "nose" at hand-drawn illustrations projected on screen:

I'm no expert, but I think they're tits

Things go a bit wrong here - reckon it's a definite case of festival fatigue. I completely miss out on seeing Horse Feathers, one of my choices of the weekend. Fuckwit. But everything is saved by the loud metal mayhem of Pulled Apart by Horses. Leeds lads, cocky, swaggering, just how youth in a rock band should be. There's even a moshpit. And then, completely brilliant - lead singer jumps up and hangs off my bunting. My bunting is ROCK! All this heavy ends with a stage invasion, which makes us all laugh our heads off. Top high to end the night:

Invaders (and some hardcore bunting)

The finale is us, Tipi tent, sharing a bottle of champagne, bit more banter, hooking up with the Adams family again, couple of Travelling Band boys, and promising Howard Local that I'll try to find a way to get him back to London (how a man who has the savvy to organise a weekend full of brilliant bands and get them all on stage on time can end up without a bed to sleep in or a lift home is beyond me...). Suddenly, Nads and I decide bed seems like a great idea, before a pint of that hot cider/brandy combo gets necked...

Wise move. Next morning, the hangover was manageable, so I gathered up Mr Monk and his sound man Joe for the promised lift. Bernie sorted yet another top brekkie, there was much League Of Gentleman chat (Pam Doove's orange juice never fails to amuse), then we packed up our troubles in our old kitbags and we were away. The weather held out all weekend, the beauty of Dorset did its bit, and I reckon Simon and Sofia can be very proud of their fledgling festival. A little festival for people who care about the music, not just limited edition Hunter wellies and the latest hairdo. Every musician seems thrilled to be playing, and the folks out there are just as thrilled to be listening to the most eclectic choice of acts around. Happy 5th Birthday, End Of The Road. You can betcha bottom dollar we'll be tuning in next year for episode 6.