Peter Cole: A Model Man Among Mad Men

"Aim out of the ballpark. Aim for the company of immortals." - David Ogilvy

Plying my trade within the advertising industry, I get to work with some wonderful people. It'd also be fair to say that I've encountered a selection of complete wankers too. Yet, on occasion, I also come across genuinely gifted individuals, whose creativity can make you truly feel it's not such a shit business after all. I'll be making an effort to accentuate that sort of positive here, which will be no chore at all when writing about Peter Cole.

Pete's work has graced many a billboard, so you'll know it without realising. Not the slogans, but the modelmade creations that transform an idea from just a scribble on a drawing board into a visual reality. His eye for detail and small-scale perfection has gone unrivalled, working in his scruffy, mad professor's workshop off Bethnal Green Road. He's helped me out of many job-related black holes. I could call him any time, in a blind panic about some layout or another, asking him how on earth we could make the impossible happen, for no budget, within a miniscule timescale. His stock reply was "let me have a little think and I'll call you back". And he always did, often coming up with a stack of ideas and a variety of solutions. A real problem solver, our Pete.

One thing that sticks in my mind is a Guinness job we did for an American agency. There was, unsurprisingly, a tiny budget, so no chance of a beer technician being flown in from St James' Gate in Dublin. But we still had to get the perfect head on that black stuff (and bear in mind, folks - in the good old days, you captured this stuff in-camera, on film - y'know, photography film - that stuff where you only get one shot at it, no 'erase' button if you fuck up...so, I'm not talking "let's fix-it-in-Photoshop" here). We all started to lose it by about 1am. By 2am, we were laughing hysterically, and things got a bit daft. This went on until 4am, when Peter Perfectionist was finally satisfied with his work, we could laugh no more, and the faultless beer head was achieved. It's one of my fondest memories of all my years in advertising, working into the wee small hours with Pete, James, Roger, all backed by the inevitable Depeche Mode soundtrack.

Only a month or two ago, I had a job in for a new Cadbury's product. It was the only time I ever heard my lovely man unsure about doing a job. Not because he thought he couldn't - he was a master of creating anything in chocolate, could do that stuff in his sleep - but because he didn't feel too well, told me had a chest infection he couldn't shake off.

It turned out to be more than just a chest infection. I'm beyond sad to say that Pete passed away 11 days ago at the far-too-young age of 60. I'm honoured to have been hugged under that big armpit, called his "darling girl", and proud to have been able to call such a smart, funny, talented, kind, dedicated, loud, brilliant chap - my friend.

He leaves behind the wonderful Pam (his art college sweetheart, 41 years of happy marriage, three kids, 6 grandkids). He also leaves a great big teddy-of-a-man-shaped hole in my life.

Nirvana: It Was Twenty Years Ago Today...

For me, it all started in the rear of a grotty little pub in Leeds. I spent an inordinate of time in the back room of that pub in my well-spent youth - every decent American hardcore band played there and I pretty much saw them all. It was the first place I saw Nirvana.

October 25th 1989. Nirvana come on stage as support to Sub Pop favourites Tad at the legendary Duchess of York in Leeds. And Nirvana were good. Not mind-blowingly good, not Mudhoney, but good. I loved 'Bleach' and particularly 'Blew' - they played it and I was happy. No Dave Grohl back then. And Tad were massive in more ways than one - Mr Doyle certainly didn't believe in cutting back on the carbs.

Around this time, I'm romancing the handsome climber, he's still at university, but spending most of his time following bands on tour around the country. Blondie and I are busy running the second-hand empire, so no chance of me doing the same, but the trusty purple van transports me around to hook up for joint musical/lusty pleasures (my favourite ever rendezvous earlier that year - 23rd March 1989, Kilburn National for Sonic Youth, supported by Mudhoney on their first foray to the UK, followed the next night by an astounding gig at the now-defunct Fulham Greyhound, where Mark Arm and his Mudhoney boys rocked a crowd so hard, you could barely breathe, the sweat dripping from every body and surface in the place).

Fast forward button. The next tour, October 1990, and Nirvana are building a head of steam, getting better and better - Dave Grohl has left Scream (great band, Scream - on Mr 'Fugazi' McKaye's Dischord label), and joined forces with Kurt and Krist. Supported by L7 - those girls who wanted to rock it like the boys, possibly more famous for getting their vaginas out on youth TV fiasco, The Word. Superfuzz Bigmuff indeed.

And then - 'Nevermind'. That tour, in 1991, was something else. I saw them three times in one week. It's still a personal record, unlikely to ever be broken (because now I'm old and past those larks...). They were reaching the pinnacle of their fame and it was the last time I'd see them in the flesh. I saw the MTV Unplugged again recently - it genuinely chills me to watch it, knowing that he'd be dead less than six months later.

20 years. I can't believe so much time has passed. Many bands have come and gone for me, but Nirvana (and Pixies) were the first band I felt I'd discovered for myself, right from the off, seeing them live in tiny venues, before they hit the big time, before the pressures and hell of being in the spotlight took over and crushed the life out of them. That handsome, scruffy, blonde 22 year-old boy, who played to us in a shabby little Yorkshire pub, would surely never have believed what his musical legacy would mean to a generation?

(Postscript: The Duchess Of York closed down eventually - going the way of so many small venues that couldn't afford the rent/rates on a city high street. I'm truly sad to report that one of the finest little showcase stages for underground music in the UK became...a Hugo Boss shop. Jesus.)

The Boy Is Back In Town

Although not remotely a dedicated follower of fashion (unless my Mr Davies is singing about it), a brief sojourn to Covent Garden today reminded me that Fashion was in town en masse. Fashion is here, because it's Fashion's very own week. Fashion can be stunningly beautiful (noted today). Fashion can also be rather freaky and a bit try-hard (noted today). Fashion has super-long legs (noted today). Fashion wears very high heels it can't always walk in (noted today). Fashion must never be confused with Style (noted today). Fashion must be bloody starving (noted today). I noted quite a bit about Fashion today. At Blunt, we represent one of the world's most sought-after beauty photographers, and an up-and-coming fashion photographer, so I'm very aware of all this Fashion stuff (I'm told I visibly wrinkle my nose when required to contact Vogue / Elle / ST Style). But on this lovely, sunny September Sunday, there were more important and pressing matters than Fashion to attend to way out East.

OUR BOY IS BACK!!!

T'lads.

Yes, photography supremo, sidekick to Mr Shane Meadows, great big lanky streak of piss, handsome lovely Dean Rogers is back in London Town. I'm beside myself with joy and overcome with happiness (and a bit pissed as I write, but more of those cocktails later). A lovely, leisurely Sunday lunch (organised by dear Nat) at the very meaty Hawksmoor on Commercial Street in Spitalfields was the venue for the welcome return of our top fella. Attended by his Ma and Pa, nearest and dearest, I was honoured to be invited. That lot had this:

Blimey.

I arrived late, so I had this:

Ale, chips, homemade ketchup.

Not as impressive visually, but good enough for me.

I also managed to take in a spectacular sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream, which was so bloody good I scoffed it in about two minutes flat and completely forgot to capture it for posterity.

I did, however, have the foresight to snap both my lovely post-dessert cocktails, selected following consultation with the very helpful and charming Scottish Robin. So charming, he even had the lezzer mafia lusting over him:

Johhny-From-London: gin, kirsch, homemade lemon sherbert,

bitters, bouteille call (in a very pretty glass)

And there was a Millionaire (rum, shaken with apricot brandy, sloe gin,lime juice, pomegranate) but the picture was a bit blurry. To be honest, I may have been a bit blurry myself by this point.

The staff at Hawksmoor were excellent. Attentive, friendly, patient, knowledgeable. I've sent the restaurant a very complimentary email, as service like that shouldn't go unrewarded by their employers. Wage rises all round, I hope.

It's great to have our boy back in town. I have to say that, after a week filled with rather sad news of one type or another, it was so perfect to spend a relaxing day with some dear friends in a superb restaurant, and to see Dean, quite literally (no misuse of that word here, thank you), back on his feet.

(Postscript: I was the only person to notice Keira Knightley leaving the restaurant. She is small and dark-haired. This will come as no surprise to any of you. I'm no real fan of her onscreen, but I was pleased to note that she is actually very pretty in the flesh, making the raptures that the fashion mags go into seem less ridiculous. And surprised to discover that she's not as Jimmy Hill / Brucie as I previously suspected. Bet she didn't eat much, though - thin as fuck.)

Sam Baker: Fine Americana In The Home Of English Folk

Having spent a lovely Sunday pottering with Nads and Lady Doc (perusing old wares at Cecil Sharp House, watching Pedro Almodovar's latest offering - The Skin I Live In - his usual combo of mad / odd / good), Nads and I returned to the home of English folk music to watch a very fine American man doing his thing.

Sam Baker plays his guitar left-hand. He didn't used to. Back in 1986, at the age of 32, Sam was travelling in Peru. A bus he was travelling on was blown up by terrorists. Many of the people he'd been chatting with, passing the time of day, were killed. Sam survived, but only just. His femoral artery was severed, but miraculously, he didn't bleed to death. His hands were also badly mutilated by the bomb, his left fretboard hand coming off worse. So, Sam learned to fret with his right hand.

A lesser man might have given up. Thank god he didn't. Sunday evening was one of the loveliest performances by any artist I've seen for a long time. I know it seems I'm often moved to tears by stuff I write about in this blog, but three times in one evening? It's a record, even for this daft softy. The words to 'Broken Fingers' are particularly poignant, as Sam points out before he plays the song. A young German boy and his family had been sitting opposite Sam just before the blast. Once the bomb had gone off, Sam knew the boys parents had died, and had to watch as the young boy slowly passed away. I'm not sure if inspiration is the right word here, but this led to the writing of 'Broken Fingers' - watch here, and perhaps I won't seem like such a daft softy after all:

The setting was also rather special. Cecil Sharp House is the home of the English Folk, Dance and Song Society. The main room at Cecil Sharp House is a large, airy room, warm-hued wooden floor, stunning sound and beautifully lit for the performance, with just a couple of simple spotlights on the stage. The show was put on by those lovely people of Luminaire fame, Andy and John, now promoting in their new guise of 5000 Presents. I'm certain there'll be more quality shows like this in the months to come, keep an eye on their listings here:

http://fivethousand.co.uk/

(Postscript: in need of a clear head, I had a long walk to the Heath the day after Sam's show. Beautiful Autumn day, obscenely sunny and warm for the time of year. Walked for miles and miles. Lovely. Thirsty work that walking lark. Finished my walk in a small pub near Gospel Oak - Southampton Arms. I'd heard tell of this place by The Scot, so knew it could be a watering hole on my walk home. What a superb way to quench my thirst. A proper little boozer, not gastro-ed up, lots of original features, huge range of proper ales and cider. They play vinyl on an old turntable behind the bar (Elizabeth Cotten was spinning while I supped - result):

and shock of shocks - they sell Seabrook crisps:

I was so pleased (and happy listening to the chat of the old blokes at the bar) that I broke my one-half-only rule and had a second half of Pale Beauty. I was very thirsty, after all.)

End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #3

Opening my eyes, I was thrilled to discover I was still alive. And what's this? No enormous, temple-throbbing, skull-splitting, chunks-blowing bitch of a hangover? Okay, bit wobbly, bit weary, but nowhere near the pain I deserved. I jumped out of that zipped door, stretched my arms above my head and gratefully said "hello" to a lovely new day. It had completely pissed it down at about 6am, so loud, belting on the nylon, that it woke me early from my stupor. No sign of that now, apart from the dampness on the field (top tip: campers, don't take a sleeping bag when camping. Take a feather quilt, and get yourself a cashmere jumper and wool socks to sleep in. It may not fan the flames of passion, this outfit, but trust me, you'll feel toasty instead of freezing your balls, or similar, off).

Waiting in the queue for the loo, I overheard a Dad telling his son "...and that's where the word 'urine' comes from". That poor kid. I bet he was thinking "jesus, Dad - you boring freak. When are we getting sorted for E's and whizz?" .

Much sitting round the camp table and drinking of tea:

I take my tea from Barbara Windsor

The sort of chat and laughter ensued that can only come from a bunch of old friends and the slight hysteria a hangover brings. The Fleetwood Mac incident had been over heard by Sarah B, who had also overheard someone singing 'Jerusalem' loudly in the lav next to her. Toilet behaviour of majestic proportion. Miss B also told a story of her MD at work, who, when bumping into one of the agency's newest female clients in a fancy restaurant, went over to say hello, "how lovely to see you, and this must be your husband?", to which she replied, "no, it's my sister". I can't even type this properly now, because I have laughy hands. He sounds like a total loose cannon, this man. There were plenty more superb stories, but don't want this turning into "Well-loved faux pas made by top brass'. There was talk of what sound your breasts would make if they could (why?). Selections included:

• Nads: Parp, Parp.
• Lou: 70s trimphone ringtone.
• Sarah B: Quack, quack oops ( à la DLT/ Hairy Cornflake radio quiz Give Us A Break) - easily the best sound for knockers?
• Helen P: Countdown theme (Richard Whiteley would approve).
• Me: General Lee car horn from Dukes Of Hazard.
• Bernie: we didn't want to denigrate Bernie's lovely tits in this childish fashion.

Once dirty pillow chat was done, time for a bit of music. Sunday at EOTR generally consists of more lying down at the Garden Stage. Arrived to a bit of Lightning Dust. Side project of Amber and Joshua from Black Mountain (easily one of my favourite bands of the past 5 years), they were good, but not Black Mountain (stating the very obvious, a fine trait of mine). Next up, Megafaun. I lay back, thought of England and looked at the now very pretty sky:

Little Fluffy Clouds

They play real sunshine-folk, Megafaun. But lordy, if I have to hear the word 'awesome' one more time, I may shove something hard up the perp's arse. Once Megafaun's 'awesome' quota had got past 6, I was slightly annoyed. Expand your vocabulary, American bands. It's a great language, this English. Use it to the max, dudes. I have been pleased to note that truly brilliant Mr Lamacq echoes my long-felt sentiments in his excellent blog: Going Deaf For A Living. I want to meet Steve Lamacq. And become his wife / best friend / cleaner. Read here:

http://goingdeafforaliving.com/

Time to go before the 'awesome' turned me into a probe-wielding maniac - "Small Northerner In American Indie Band Dildo Murder Shocker". - front page heaven, almost makes you wish for the return of NOTW. No awesome from the gorgeous Willy Mason. He is, but I wouldnt put it like that. Just well-written, beautifully crafted songs sung by a voice that breaks my heart. With the sun now high and bright in the sky, there couldnt have been a nicer way to while away a Sunday afternoon. Bumped into the lovely Lucy Local, who very kindly offered to charge my phone, as it'd been dead for most of the weekend, making communication with the outside world difficult (actually pretty liberating). Moved on to the Tipi, sat in the sun, ate fish curry, a thirst-quenching pint of shandy and some people-watching:

Me mate's well fit, innit (more bunting...zzz...)

I've really noticed how much EOTR has changed this year. When I first came here, 5 years ago, it was a crowd of a certain age (25-45, I'd guess), all really here just for the music. This year, it's much more of a fashion show. Massive numbers of those who've bought magazines telling them how to dress for a festival, gone out and bought it wholesale, now spending a weekend looking slightly fish-out-of-water in bargain-bin Kate Moss-ish kit. My tip: be yourself, not someone you think other people you don't even know think you should be. If you get my drift. And watch the bands. Watch and listen. Don't look around the crowd constantly and talk loudly to your friends, telling them "oh god, this is just SO my favourite band EVER!" then proceed to chit-chat through their entire set. Please. Stop this. Grandma is asking you nicely.

Not sure what happened there. Got a bit ranty. Done now. As you were. Back to the main event.

Bumped into dear Massimo and his foxy Lisa having a potter. Good to see him away from The Haberdashery letting his hard-working hair down. The Haberdashery have been nominated for The London Lifestyle Awards 2011, up against such exalted company as Bar Italia, Konditor & Cook, Patisserie Valerie - well, bollocks to that lot. Vote for a fine little café, with efficient and cheery staff - let's hear it for Alberto! - and two of the nicest proprietors you could wish to meet:

http://londonlifestyleawards.com/vote.php

At this point. there was a venture back for essentials (couple of beers, packet of Jaffa Cakes, 2 Tunnock's Wafers), then into the Big Top for Kurt Vile. He was good, and I managed about 5 songs, but I really needed daylight at this point. I sat around outside, jotting notes in my pad (I love my fountain pen - words look so much better written in proper ink), eating Jaffa Cakes. The sun was going down and the temperature really dropped. Kurt finished his set, bringing the gang out, followed by dear Howard. He was sporting a very nice Rochdale FC scarf (I am pleased to report Rochdale have won today, although they are currently already languishing in relegation zone. Huddersfield Town are 5th, therefore proving their Yorkshire superiority. Take that, Lancashire.)

The Ladies headed back for London at this point, big hugs all round, the skies really darkening. As Josh T. Pearson began his set, the drizzle started. Not easily dampened, the dark-but-wonderful Josh T, as his wit inbetween songs proved - constantly reminding us how dry he was up on that stage. Little bit of festival politics here too, not like that knob Ben Elton, but Josh did ask the crowd if they liked the changes at EOTR, and there were a lot of boos. He's a regular here, and as he made clear, he's not too keen on being drowned out by sound from another stage whilst playing. He asked Simon and Sofia to take note, but not before charmingly adding that he'd like to come back again next year, pretty please. Point noted by the organisers, I'm hoping. That Woods stage has a massive sound system which floats up and totally takes over any quiteter acts on any other stage - whilst listening to Sam Amidon, I really noticed the cross-over and found it a real nuisance. JTP was superb, nonetheless. At one point, he asked for dirty jokes from the audience whilst he tuned his guitar. I left shortly after this, to take in another fave, Midlake. This meant I missed McG meeting JTP in the Rough Trade tent and proferring a dirty joke to him:

"My girlfriend just broke up with me for being too kinky. I almost choked on her shit as she was telling me".

This went down a storm with Mr Pearson. He chortled away, by all accounts, begging for a pen so he could jot it down. Look forward to hearing this filth repeated at his next gig, folks:

Meeting of great dirty minds

Midlake were the headline band the very first Friday I ever attended at EOTR 5 years ago. Van Occupanther hadn't been out so long, and they were a huge standout for me that weekend. Nads had never heard them before, so they were a welcome revelation for her. And yet again, they didn't disappoint. The weather, however, did. It became truly cold and started raining heavily. After much of the set, we just couldn't face standing and freezing our tits off any more, so we got some hot grub and headed for the sanctuary of The Tipi. Result. It was full of people huddling together, steamy body heat warming the air, and we soon found a spot with a hay bale vacant for a curl-up:

Tiny Haystacks

We had a real lull here and despite it only being about 9pm, we started to talk about an early night (I know, I know - ridiculous). Entertainment appeared in a bunch of blokes with a small model aeroplane, throwing it around, and encouraging others to throw it about too. It landed near me. It would have involved moving to pick it up. I honestly couldn't be arsed. But following much encouragement, I did. And threw it right back at 'em. Then, they threw it and it landed in some bloke's plate of chilli and he didn't look too pleased:

The offending article.

In dire need of oomph, we headed to see Brakes. Caught the last few songs. Perfect. They had more energy going on than most bands had managed to summon all weekend. But really, enough is enough. So, we had a quick cuppa, headed back, got curled up and listened to Kate Bush-lite wafting in from the Woods stage. No doubt Joanna Newsom is supremely talented, but as a lifelong Kate Bush fan, I have all I need in one package. Many young pretenders to our Kate's crown, but unless you can surpass her, I'll stick with the original and best, thank you. Lying there on my airbed cloud, cashmered up and cosy as hell, I honestly thought Miss Newsom had persuaded Miss Bush out of hiding to join her onstage at EOTR. I was wrong. It was just JN doing her best KB impersonation (and you can bog off too, Tori effing Amos).

I had the most heavenly night's kip. I awoke fresh and quite prepared for the drive back. First journey back to the car over, decent coffee in hand, and at this point, I received my first offer of marriage of the weekend.

I had to turn it down. My skills at putting down pop-up tents are exemplary. Mine was down in 2 minutes. Watched the handsome/hairy next door struggle for a good 10 minutes until he exclaimed "anyone got a match?". Can't have him setting fire to it, so I suggested he let me have a go. Down in 30 seconds. He opened his arms, hugged me and asked me to marry him. I said I didn't think we should base a lifelong commitment on my camping skills. He seemed disappointed. Another one bites the dust.

With the fishing trolley loaded, we made our last trip to the cars, and I saw one of my favourite sights of the whole weekend:

That's a big bra. FF, at the very least. The thought of a pair of knockers that big wandering round the campsite unencumbered, probably sweeping aside young children and tents in their wake, made me laugh like a drain. It'll stick with me always, the vision of that bra on the yellow car. A fine visual finale to another great EOTR.

(Postscript: or perhaps that should read post-mortem...it'd be churlish to point out too many faults at this year's EOTR. I've clearly had a great time. But it's obviously getting considerably bigger, no longer a small, intimate affair. They really will have to sort the sound clash problem out. Simon and Sofia always said they wanted EOTR to stay small (initially capped at 5000, now at about 8500), but it's their livelihood, and if more people want to attend, then why not? Just not sure that site can take much more without it spoiling the whole point of enjoying the environment at Larmer Tree. Fill it with more stalls, people, tents, and you may as well hold EOTR in any old large bit of open space. And 3500 is a big jump in capacity. Whilst discussing this with Howard Local just now, we both realised how little we bumped into old friends over the weekend. Case in point - whilst leaving the site on Monday morning, I saw Steven 'Singing' Adams. Big hugs, followed by joint amazement that we hadn't bumped into each other all weekend - we usually bump into each other all weekend.

Still, that's hardly something to get a face on about. EOTR have just announced a small baby-sister festival: No Direction Home. This will be held 8-10 June 2012, near Sherwood Forest, with camping beside a lake with views of Welbeck Abbey. Sounds lovely. If the line-up is good, it'll probably be a winner. Makes me wonder how big EOTR will end up, though. Any bigger will be too big for me, and I'll be truly sad to say I've attended my last EOTR. *breaks out tiny violin*)

End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #2

Should have known that fog would mean a grey start to Saturday. And it did. But you can't sit around with a face like a smacked arse when this is going on round the breakfast table:

Breakfast of King

The day may have made a damp start, but our spirits were soon lifted by a trip to the Garden Stage to see James Yorkston. Having watched a beautiful performance by James recently at St Giles' church (he read from his Domino Press book about touring "It's Lovely To Be Here - not had chance to read it yet. If you read this, A-D - lend?), I knew I was in for some very special soothing of my slightly furrowed brow. Tartan (how apt) blanket laid out and a nice lie-down as he played, accompanied by a lovely string section. Sigh.

Second must-see of the weekend - Canada's most-super Dan Mangan. I honestly can't get enough of this man, and lucky for Blighty, he comes over to see us on a regular basis. Despite breaking a B string, he played his heart out, not with his usual electric ensemble, but with a beautifully fitting string set-up. His double bass player is a hoot, makes a superb effort on the falsetto vocals on 'The Indie Queens Are Waiting' which raises a real giggle from the assembled fans. 'Nice, Nice, Very Nice' is a wonderful album - buy it, you won't regret it (anyone who references Mr Vonnegut also a winner in my book). And then, he brings the sun out (I'm putting it down to him - the God I don't believe in must love him too). There's an obvious finale, but one every assembled fanfreak is happy with - huge 'Robots' sing-a-long, and Dan chucks himself offstage for a walkabout to play among us, which goes down a storm. Big admiration.

Nicer than 'Nice' Mr Mangan

No need to go anywhere right now - next up, another EOTR stalwart fave, Mr Bob Log The Third (oh, how I'd love to have met First and Second). BLIII is unmissable. Last time I saw him, it was Christmas week, the final week of lovely Lumianire's existence, watched with dear friends from a top vantage point. He's a regular here at EOTR, but I have to say, this is BLIII's year. Something struck a chord, a very deep-down-and-dirty chord, with the audience and it was a riot. When he asked "hey crowd, are you wet yet?", there were whoops from every lady present. He suggested we had dirty minds - he'd only wondered if we were sweating. When he announces his 'secret' performance in the Tipi at half past midnight, you know mayhem is in store. At this point, I catch up with Lou W, who really is quite moist at the thought of Bob and is his newest, biggest fan. A plan is hatched to be up front for the Tipi bedlam, she wants to be bounced on Bob's knee, and perhaps give his Scotch a stir. Rather than show you some dull snap of BLIII, not remotely capturing the essence of this remarkable phenomenon, I'm attaching a little footage of the man in action - prepare to feel damp, people:

Generally, I make one cock-up each year at EOTR, usually involving missing an act. I've absolutely no idea what happened next, maybe I was sidetracked by fried food or fine hirsuteness, but I managed to not see Phosphorescent. WHAT??? WHY??? Apparently, he was amazing, a solo set. And he played "Wolves". Stupid, stupid, stupid me. (I'd like to mention that 'Wolves is likely to be played at Mr McG's funeral. I mention this not because there's anything up with our Irish friend, heralding an imminent demise, but because the playlist for his funeral currently stands at approximately 173 songs. This funeral, when it eventually comes to pass, is going to last about a fucking week. The lovely, long-suffering Bernie is surely hoping she goes first, just so she doesn't have to sit through it.)

After it dawns that I've cocked up, it all goes tits up. I've since looked at the line-up and can't remotely remember what I was up to for about the next 2 hours. I vaguely recall seeing a bit of Welsh wonder Gruff Rhys, but that's about it. Next thing I knew, I was swaying to the psych-swirly Black Angels (thrilled to hear that Nana had found something she really liked, buying 'Passover' from the dear folks in the Rough Trade tent, and it's a bloody good album), now way past 9pm. Think the Health & Safety Officer came out in Scooter Steve at this juncture, as he pointed out the mirrorball in The Big Top stage, which had some seriously worrying long spikes as part of the design. "That's just hanging by a thin wire and if it comes down, someone's going to get hurt". No shit, Grandad. But he did have a point, and from here on in, none of us wanted to stand under that bad boy:

Death Star

Black Angels gave way to Mogwai, who were just superb. Perfect, perfect sound. Then some Okkervill River, with a bespectacled Will Sheff treating us to a heartrending 'Stone' but more importantly, giving it his all on 'Black', to which I sang along, unashamedly. Then, Bernie appeared from a toilet break holding something in her hand. I wondered if she'd had an accident on the way, but no. On entering the lav, she'd seen this shadowy thing in the corner and realised it was a crutch. Who on earth comes to a festival with an injury so bad that it requires a crutch, only to leave it in the bog after some urinary (or secondary) relief? How could you forget the bad leg / broken foot? Booze must have played its devilish part for our mystery injured party, that's all I can surmise. Some legless (pun intended) pisshead staggering about thinking 'something's missing here'. She meant to hand it in. It didn't happen. It was used as a Dick Whittington-esque stick to hold the Cab Sav bladder aloft. It was used to poke people in the back. I think it may have ended up on stage with Bob Log III at midnight, but maybe he was just pleased to see us:

Bet she kicked Legless while he was down too.

OK, let's cut to the chase. BLIII is on stage at 12.30am. We get there about midnight and it's already starting to fill up. Undeterred, we head for the front and Lou swears she may rip the tits off anyone scuppering her chance to grace the big man's knee. You couldn't move as showtime came around. What really amused me is that all the young ladies around didn't even bat an eyelid at the nice, bespectacled 'roadie' who came on stage to test kit and mic. Probably old enough to be their Dad, and sporting big specs. Well, young ladies - there's the thing with wearing a bike helmet to play. No-one really knows...that actually, BLIII is a gentle, speccy Buddy Holly lookey-likey. Tickled me pink. But hell, get that man in a lurex jumpsuit and his shiny helmet, and it's tits in his whisky and hot-ass-on-knee aplenty. It wasn't easy to maintain a position right at the front of the stage with the youth desperate to be near our hero, but years of elbow experience paid off. I really don't mind letting anyone pass me at a gig, I have lovely manners. Unfortunately, them there youth of today do not. At one point, two brazen hussies make a loud and pushy move to pass Lou W. It was a thing of beauty. She subtly held them at bay for the rest of the set, using just her elbows in some mental skiing action (I'm laughing out loud at the memory of it now), which considering the persistence of these little nightmares, was quite a feat of endurance. No bingo wings on our Lou. Bob was great. Amazing. And us old birds did the graceful thing and let the youth in their hotpants grind their asses on Bob's leg. It would have been too unkind to them (and, in fact, him) if two middle-aged birds in army jackets and old Levis had thrown their shit on his leg. (Top songs, Bob - 'I Want Your Shit On My Leg', along with 'Boob Scotch', 'Clap Your Tits' and 'My Shit Is Perfect'. Nice.)

Fired up by Bob, I cracked open Father's flask of Fighting Cock (not sure how that reads for you, bit weird for me), and headed for good ol' bourbon oblivion. It was bloody brilliant:

Definitely to blame.

There are vague recollections of attempts to pole dance down part of the Tipi. There was definitely dancing to Aretha F in the fairy woods whilst singing loudly. There was a sing-a-long of the very brilliant Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way' on the path near the tents, until one tent shouted "Shut Up And Fuck Off", because it was 4am and they were sick of hearing "If I could, baby, I'd give you my world" for the umpteenth time. No sense of humour, some of these modern nylon constructions.

End Of The Road 2011: All Growed Up #1

Army jacket - check. 70s tan knee boots - check. Pocketful of Fighting Cock (in Father's hipflask - it's a nice bourbon, folks) - check. Sorted. Get in the car, Nads - we're off to Dorset.

Having risen bright and early, knowing my nylon home for the weekend would already have been kindly chucked up by dear friends, a smooth drive through baking sunshine brought us to Larmer Tree for the 2011 edition of End Of The Road Festival. Having seen the line-up go from strength to strength over the previous months, we narrowly squeaked in for tickets just before 'Sold Out' was announced.

Arrival at the gates brought some changes. Having been coming here for the last 5 years, I've noticed a few over time, but this was a real biggy. They've altered the way in. Turning in at the entrance, we were met by Kieran McG with the carp trolley. I bought this thank-you gift for my good friends last year - well, thank the Lord for that because it's paid for itself and then some. The only way into the site is now a 200 yard struggle over some mental chain-gang-broken-rocky ground. Luckily, I arrived at EOTR in the most cheery of spirits, but a lesser being might have struggled with the Krypton-Factor-style rocky road hell to be endured. Without that trolley, it would have been interesting to say the least. But we had a man-folk in our midst in the shape of Mr McG and a 'let's off-road!' motherfucker of a fishing trolley, so all was just fine.

The gathering was almost complete. Scooter Steve and Bernie were already ensconced (I'd like to mention Scooter Steve's hair at this point. Something very odd has happened. It seems to have gone a bit...banana Nesquik:

Imagine, if you will, a cross between this...

...and this.

I challenged him. He utterly denies having done anything to it at all, but frankly, he's a bloody liar. No way that hair went that colour on its own, unaided, without the help of a carton of 80s George Michael/Wham favourite, Sun-In. He maintained his innocence until the end of the weekend. When we were back in London, he rang me from Muswell Hill to tell me that a small child had pointed at him and said "Mummy, look at the man with the yellow hair". See, Steve - even the kids know your game).

Once Nadine's 5-man tent was up (there's one of her, she's about 5 foot tall - it's excessive to say the least, but I'm all for excess), it seemed like time for a well-deserved treat:

Beverage, snack and that mofo of a trolley

And now, a wander on to the site. More stalls than ever and the addition of a behemoth of a new stage, to be known as The Woods. Blanket on the ground, and a lie-down in the outrageously-hot-for-September sun as Dry The River struck up their chords and sent their harmonies wafting over our heads. Lovely start. A wander over to catch a bit of Sarabeth Tucek was sidelined by bumping into Howard and Lucy Local, who were doing their usual excellent curation of a stage, this year at the Tipi marquee (hmmm... that may be the mixing of two tent genres, but you get the idea). At this point, I was accused of wearing a top with very small print across my chest, in order to trap gentlemen into staring fixedly at my front. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and I believe this says much more about the commenter than it does about me, but I won't hold it against him. My chest, I mean. I'll never hold it against him (again).

My partner-in-crime and I had a wander round the healing area. Following last year's off-piste move of having a massage (it turned into something akin to a bumming-with-jeans-still-on), I'd thought it might be an idea to have another go, but preferably done by a nice lady this year. I was embarrassed to see the administrator of last year's on-my-ass action plying his wares again, so I decided to sidle off unmassaged, partly blushing, mostly laughing.

Not expecting such wonderful weather, had to break out the sunblock. Considering what a crock the weather's been recently, we truly were on a winning streak. And once Skinny Lister piped up their party sea-shanty madness, there was definitely a sunny atmosphere going on at the Tipi. Skinny Lister are a riotous bunch - a captainless crew of ne'er-do-wells, pressganging the audience into imagining they're on a voyage of grog-filled folky fun. There actually was a stoneware flagon of grog being passed round the crowd (I did wonder why people were prepared to catch cold sores from complete strangers for the sake of a swig of warm cider, but good luck to 'em).

Next up, Found. Found are part of the Fence Records Collective from Anstruther (started by the wonderful Kenny 'King Creosote' Anderson - he managed to make me cry very recently by being brilliant at The Union Chapel. As I'm writing this, I'm disappointed to be texted by a pal that he hasn't won the Mercury Music Prize - not that he'd probably give a shit. Still, well done, PJ. It's a fine album). Found play off-kilter but enjoyable pop with a spot of added electronica, coupled with the odd freak-out. Bit early in the day for the folky crowd gathered, but I quite liked it.

Back to tent for booze gathering, only to discover The Ladies had arrived. Lou W, Sarah B and Nana sitting round, discussing the potential tears that a second run to the car via Rocky Road Hell might bring. I encouraged them to get a bit of a wriggle on, with enticements of hairy rock 'n' roll and booze. They are easily enticed, these women, and Rocky Road Hell became naught but a small inconvenience with such delights promised. Their first visit to EOTR, this, prompted by Sarah B's 40th birthday and a whipround that purchased one festival ticket and £100 in booze / fried food tokens for the weekend:

Presentation of rock 'n' roll lottery win by Saatchi's finest

First foray to the Garden Stage saw Joan As Policewoman hitting the boards. Time for adult beverage and I was rather proud to have made it to 6.30pm bevvyless (I have self-control - I is finally all growed up). Joan is very good if you like that lady-singer-songwriter thing. Which I do. Quite a bit, in fact. But, if I'm honest, although she's musically proficient and has a strong voice - there's just something missing for me. So, a quickish getaway heads us back to the Tipi for the astonishing talents of Mr Sam Amidon. Sam is a real fave of mine, great banter between songs, really engages with his crowd, picks his banjo like a motherfucker, all coupled with a gentleness of voice and spirit that sends shivers right through you when he takes it down a notch or two. His hair is also much more unruly since last time I saw him play, also a very good thing.

Time for a fried potato break.

With 5 minutes to spare, the whole gang converged on a packed Garden Stage for my must-see band of the weekend. The Walkmen are a band made up of men. They dress like proper men, normal jeans (Levis - no fancy pockets or detail), in shirts, sometimes jumpers, with suit jackets:

Proper men. Walkmen.

And they rock. I mean really rock. We ventured forward. I'd already told The Ladies to watch out for Hamilton Leithauser (what a name, what a guy). When he sings, he moves mountains. He has the biggest voice I've heard in a singer for years - the veins burst out in his neck, he spits the words (spits quite literally - I'd happily be sprayed) and he can hold a note - for ages. They completely make my day - 'In The New Year' rings out and I get a bit emotional (I'm not even drunk). Some prick keeps shouting for 'Lost In Boston', which is vexing. I've heard tell of their fans doing this before. He just keeps on shouting for it. I pray they don't play it, because on occasion, I can be mean like that. And then, Hamilton tells a story about last time they were in England, they filled their diesel van up with petrol by accident. Some fella called Murdo turned up at 5am, completely pissed, tried to help by draining the tank. Didn't fix it, but they loved him for it. So much so, that they dedicated the next song to him. And what a song - The Rat. I've a feeling we went a bit extra at this point and I ventured to dance / sing-a-long rather frantically. Me and thousands of others. Brilliant.

Last minute leg-it to the Tipi for She Keeps Bees. Entered the tent to Jess Larrabee saying something along the lines of "thanks, this is our last song". Oh, bollocks. But it wasn't - hooray! They played four more songs, accompanied by the very lovely Mr Oh Ruin. I'm not sure if Eoin is now a permanent fixture with SKB, but I've seen them play twice this year and he played with them both times. They really are superb. Jess has genuine shiny star specialness, and I particularly love her inbetween-song banter, which can verge on the bonkers at times. Followed this with a small bit of The Fall - even if you're not a Fall fan, even if you've never heard of Mark E. Smith, I recommend you read his book Renegade (and do me a favour - buy it from a proper bookshop, not Amazon). The man has always done his own thing, maverick in a way a miserable Northerner (my favourites) should be. Hilariously fucking funny. Almost as funny as Scooter Steve's impersonation of Mark E. Smith at any given point over the weekend. The most mundane of things said in Mark E. Smith's voice can reduce me to tears. Best word: 'daddy-long-legs', following one flying past my head at breakfast. Very, very funny indeed.

And so to White Denim in the Big Top. Now, I've wanted to see these boys for some time. And there's really no way to describe what they do other than - wig out. They absolutely wig out, in a jazz-psych-fusion-rock-prog-spazz-metal-jam way (through Orange amps, of course). Am I getting this across? And some of the most outrageous guitar-face pulling I've seen for aeons, surely learned from footage of festivals of the late 60s / early 70s? If that's what they look like when they play, heaven only knows what they look like when they come.

By this time, I was past the bands thing. Over it for one day. I had a bit of this to see me through:

Bakewell + cuppa = second wind

There was drunken chat, particularly from Mr McG, who'd made a severe dent in a bladder of wine (this is basically a box of wine with the box removed - a big, shiny, silver innerbag of Cab Sav with a handy tap for drinking from. The man's an animal). It transpires that in the line for the toilets, some chap had made for the disabled lav, turning round just before entering and telling the massive queue "don't look at me like that, I am technically disabled, I have a hair lip", which is really witty, if a little bit stolen from Curb/Larry David. Still, if un-PC humour is worth nicking from someone, Larry's your man.

I'm not sure what passes for being un-PC nowadays. Feel sure I have my own moments. So, as I've entered the Tipi stage (bearing in mind it's late and I've had a wee bit of booze) to catch up with my fellow inebriates, I hear the band on stage (who are The Growlers from California) saying that their name means 'big shit' in American slang. It also came as some surprise to them to know that their name is slang for 'vagina' in the UK. Honestly - this name stuff is the least of their worries. They were playing blacked up. What. The. Fuck. I thought I was seeing things. And is it bad to find this mildly amusing? They were rocking varying shades of black, ranging from milky chocolate to darkest Bourneville. Maybe that kinda thing is a-happenin' down Santa Monica nowadays, but I'm not so sure they'd get away with it in Hampstead:

Black (Yet Also Strangely White) Minstrel Show

The evening culminated in the very excellent Mr Richard Hawley having his way with me in the woods. I mean, he played music he likes, I danced. There were some cracking Northern Soul moves (bravo, Nana), some less brilliant Northern Soul moves (the rest of us) and a bit of rockabilly / garage shuffling. I love Richard Hawley. He turns up every year at End Of The Road, plays his record collection (sometimes accompanied by Jarvis C), camps out with his entire family, manages to make me weep like a wee child when he plays his love songs. He likes HP sauce. He's from Sheffield. He's a northern God. But however good and God-like he is, when a girl's gotta go, a girl's gotta go. My feathery bed called me and I answered her call with an aimless wander back through the fog (?!?) for a night of lovely, uninterrupted slumber.

Uninterrupted, that is, if you don't count the fuckwit who tripped over my guyropes at about 4am. But it sounded like he hurt himself, so all's well that end's well.