Eye O' The Dug: Top O' The Class

He's a persuasive type, my friend McG. When he suggested back in January that we head north o' the border for a FenceFest called Eye O' The Dug, I said no (for purely financial reasons). He ignored me and bought me a ticket anyway.

Thank Christ for that.

It's like having an extra Mum and Dad, being mates with McG and Ber. But parents who can drink you under the table and have excellent knowledge of american hardcore, 90s indie and shoegaze. I feel like their errant teenage daughter, as we head off for a 6 hour rail marathon to Leuchars. They've made egg sandwiches for the journey, and have control of the train tickets. I love these people.

Arrival at the B&B in St Andrews provides some laughs - we're in a family room. It gets better. The owner Brian loves my accent and when I say I'm originally from Huddersfield, he replies "ach aye, so's the wife!". Honestly. Then he asks if we're here for the golf. We look at each other - three less likely golfers you could wish to meet. Then he points out the shower is large. He clearly thinks we're swinging golfers (not 5 iron swinging - no, sexy swinging with lingerie and optional dildos). Time to get out of there sharpish and head off for TUNES.

St Andrews student union is home to Day One of EOTD. And it's a fancy student union - it has Orla Kiely wallpaper (adorned with some very lovely posters from the Fence chappies):

Booze in hand, we head for Francois and his Atlas Mountains. They're a rayon de soleil (that's ray of sunshine, in case you're not au fait with the lingo). Great to watch, bright, sparky, and Francois is absurdly pretty, so it's a good start. More beer appears, then a pie, then the fire alarm goes off and we all stand pissing about in the freezing cold, then I seem to be drunker than I thought I would be at this point. I blame the whisky token presented on arrival, which secured a pint (PINT) of whisky and ginger cocktail, dutifully necked at a silly pace. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the Djangos happened at this juncture and I loved them. For my swan song, those nice Hot Chip boys took to the decks, and I busted my moves to Prince's 'I Wanna Be You Lover' which is surely one of the finest foot-tappin' tunes ever created by a man in high heels wielding a Stratocaster. 

Zebedee said time for bed (before you make a tit of yourself).

Sunday dawned and I seemed to have caught a headache. Nothing the bracing winds of St Andrews beach couldn't blow away (aided by paracetamol and cake). Bit of wandering reveals that St Andrews is inhabited by some Scottish people and an awful lot of Americans. Why? Is it the golf? The University? Or, perhaps, because, "Scotchland is, like, totally awesome, dude!"

She likes a hat, our Ber.

Our home for Day Two of EOTD would be Younger Hall. A large impressive room with a huge organ (leave it), coupled with a second, much more intimate, room downstairs. We headed downstairs to kick the day off with Barbarossa. It gets pretty packed in this smaller room, and luckily, Johnny Lynch (aka The Pictish Trail / main Fence man) appears, to encourage the lazy arses sitting on the floor to stand up so more folks can get in. Bravo. Barbarossa consists mainly of James Mathé, who I saw support Junip a year or two back. It's the perfect start. He has a gorgeous voice and Rozi Plain joins him at one point to create some truly lovely harmonies.

My crush on Mr Pictish Trail continues unchecked and unabashed. Listen to 'Secret Soundz Vol. 1' and you'll get it. Marrying the perfect amount of guitar picking, loops, beeps, plinky plonk, and THAT voice, it's a mixture that makes me giddy. And he can whistle. When he sings 'All I Own', I almost dissolve into a heart-shaped puddle. Channelling Elvis at the end of his set ensures he has a lifelong hunk of my burnin' love.

Hangover took over for a minute after the thrill of Mr Trail, so I had to have a sit in the sunshine with a cuppa and a nice oatcake. Bluebells flowering, it was a sweet quarter-hour. RM Hubbert wandered past with what looked like a can of Irn Bru. Then, I saw some bloke sporting a kilt at the merch stall, buying a CD then stashing it in his sporran-cum-penis-warmer-bag. None More Scottish.

I bought my only merch of the weekend - 'Thirteen Lost & Found' by RM Hubbert. This man is a sweetheart, I could watch him strum / drum / flick / scrape his guitar all day. He played 'A False Bride', a song so sparse and sad, sung with his clear voice, and I'm fairly sure some smoke / an eyelash / CS gas must have sneaked in my eye, because they got a bit watery. 

James Yorkston is a local boy done good. He was his ever-witty, self-deprecating brilliant self, and told (via song and guitar) a hilarious story about blowing up the 18th hole on THAT famous golf course (despite his Dad being in the audience, and his fear of a thick ear).

I interrupt this broadcast with a short break for fried food, beer, and a bit of a wander. Those Fence boys must like their pies, because they actually scheduled a "Dinner Break" into the running order. Genius.

Wandering the streets of St Andrews, I discovered what may well be the best road name of all time:

I know, I know. I'm pathetic.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a riot. Kid Canaveral - why have I never seen them before? Withered Hand - why have I seen him so many times? Because he's fucking brilliant, that's why, dear. Dan Willson is a king among troubadours, he played with his full band, the audience finished his lyrics when he couldn't remember, the room was packed out with superfans - this fella is adored, not least by McG, who is probably in the running for NumeroUnoFan. To top it all, Mr WH was wearing some fetching eyeliner (but no spectacles), which we all found not the least bit odd, but rather cute.

Last up, and the most perfect finale was a helping of Head Fence Boy himself, King Creosote, aided by the wonderful Jon Hopkins, superb KT Tunstall and The Geese fiddlers (hooray for the Geese, who played along with more than one act during EOTD - good stuff). Playing the songs from 'Diamond Mine', KC and his sunshine band held that huge hall completely captive. Of all the songs on the album (if you haven't heard it - who are you, Rip Van Fucking Winkle???), 'Bubble' is my favourite, and when they play it, god, it's sublime. There's a lovely bit where KC and Johnny Pictish have a bit of a hug and do their EOTD thank you's to their helpers and pals. 

The final song of the night comes as a bit of a shock.  'Song To The Siren' is a piece I've loved for many years, thanks to the superb 1983 This Mortal Coil cover. On this night, I'm knocked sideways by the beauty of the sound, as Kenny sings so plaintively, and I have a wee moment where I think of my Dad, and next thing I know, tears are absolutely bucketing down my face. Bloody hell. Then, it's all over, everyone is cheering and McG turns round to discover me with mascara all over the place and a snotty nose. 

My surrogate parents wipe my face with a bit of spit on a hanky, then take me off for the aftershow (Mr Pictish has invited the ENTIRE audience up the road to a tiny club that holds about 100 people max). We drink, listen to a mad mix of tunes, and I see lovely Withered Hand, who hails me as "the girl I speak to about spectacles" (I like this).

All good things must come to an end, so we head off for a good night's kip, up bright and relatively breezy, just in time to watch McG devour a ten-piece breakfast (when asked what he'd like for the cooked breakfast, I think the nice lady at the B&B expected him to choose some things from the 10 possible choices. He just gestured at the whole list and said "I'd like that". Greedy fucker.).

To conclude, a shit weekend, dump of a town, crap music, organised by a bunch of total cocks.

*congratulates self on clever reverse psychology to keep hipster idiot crowds at bay next year*

http://www.fencerecords.com/

(Postscript: Fence Records are holding a showcase at the 2012 Camden Crawl. If you've a sane bone in your body, you'll go along and enjoy a truly spectacular Sunday afternoon. And if you get bored there (you're a freak), you can always head off and find yourself at the very excellent Local offerings - details if you press right here, dear.)

A Tale Of Two Film Nights

Once upon a time, when shirt collars were impressively long and men wore platform shoes fo' real, my folks would head out for Sunday lunch to the local cricket and bowling club. I'd beg to be left at home. Not because I didn't like my parents (the best), but because if they were out, I'd have the house to myself and could indulge in my guilty pleasure. As soon as the door closed behind them, I'd draw the curtains, and settle down to give myself the near-orgasmic prepubescent thrill of watching black and white films, alone, in a darkened room.

Nothing has changed. I still like to watch lovely old films alone, but on occasion, I hook up with pals to share the pleasure. When Miss P recently forwarded an e-flyer for a cinema night showing Eighties classic 'Rita, Sue and Bob Too', I couldn't resist. It's a brilliant piece of observational film-making, set not far from my home town, and riotously funny to boot. So, it seemed natural to think that an evening spent watching a film I know very well and love dearly, in the beautiful surroundings of the Town Hall Hotel in Bethnal Green, would be a joy.

They can't muck this stuff up, can they?

Well, just shows how wrong a girl can be. The best part about the evening was the short introduction by designer Peter Jensen, who'd been invited by Test (it's Fashion, darling) to select his favourite film. He was very charming and I found it funny to think that this Danish creative type had seen it back in his teens and found it so hilarious too. A great shame, then, that the Test fashion pack were clearly too busy thinking about their outfits to get the viewing basics right (I saw some sartorial crimes against humanity in that room - surprised I got any sleep at all that night). Choosing to project a bog-standard DVD in the wrong aspect ratio was a shocking mistake - it made Rita, Sue and poor bloody Bob's Rover SD1 look weird and squashed. The sound was terrible. And those surroundings, lovely though they may be, don't lend themselves to film viewing at all. Massive disappointment.

Fast-forward this picture - and what a difference a week makes. I'd almost passed up on the chance to go to yet another film night, but the cinema gods must have given me a subliminal nudge. Lucky stars to be thanked, I popped along with the Boss, Nat, Horton and Lucie Love to Ciné-Real. A small industrial space in East London, made comfy with ramshackle seating and soft-lit standard lamps (managed to corner myself a high-backed Chesterfield wing chair - fuck, yeah!), old swing tunes played on a scratchy turntable, small bar with reasonably priced drinks, and the pièce de résistance - an original 16mm print of Alfred Hitchcock's 'Notorious', projected lovingly by Umit, a gentleman who knows his celluloid from his Betamax. Gold standard for the silver-screen - that's what I call a film night.

The Master would approve.

Ciné-Real was conceived by Liam St Pierre, cinéphile and all-round good egg (he's the top physiotherapist who's had a clever hand getting our Mr Rogers back on his feet - and got The Boss's manky arm on the move too). Lovely things like this are to be encouraged - so here's a link to the next night - but beware and I'm asking you nicely - by all means, come along to my celluloid heaven, but don't sit in my Chesterfield throne or there'll be murders.

http://cine-real.com/

(Postscript: I've done myself a small mischief. In an effort to be less of a slouch, I made my first trip to the lido at London Fields. Good place, that. Swimming outside is very enjoyable. Cleverly, I chose the coldest day for weeks, making the place empty enough to enjoy a lane almost to myself. Almost, except for some big pillock thinking he was The Man From Atlantis, who decided to have a stab at butterfly stroke right next to me, causing a tidal wave to batter its way into my ear drum causing 3-day-deafness. I managed to swim 20 lengths of an Olympic size pool despite him (that's a frickin' KILOMETRE!). Was very pleased. Until I woke up with a crick in my neck. Some painkillers later, I asked The Boss to ask lovely Liam (see Ciné-Real above) what I should do. I should have sniffed the bullshit immediately, as she proceeded to tell me, completely deadpan, that Liam had said "because Dawn is now a certain age, her bottom will have become much heavier and sagged, causing the nerves in her neck to get dragged violently downwards, causing this severe pain." Full marks for trying, Boss. Laughed my head off. The cow.)

The true cause of my pain. Not my heavy, saggy arse.