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.

Yule(b)Log #1

I’m back in Disgracelands. Moved back in last week, after a mental, topsy-turvy year. Thank god that’s all over. Sharing this time. You’d think it’d be weird after having been used to swanning round in my knickers and having the whole huge 2 bedroomed shebang to myself. But no, it’s quite nice and it’s like coming home. My spiritual home.

It’s been a right week since I moved back in. I’m bloody exhausted. It’s hard work, this enjoying-yourself-at-Xmas lark.

Weds: Bob Log III at The Luminaire. We love BLIII. He’s something else. And we were lucky enough to get a ringside seat thanks to the kindness of Andy Luminaire, who let us watch the spectacle from the DJ box. Bob managed to bounce ladies on each knee, but there was no stirring of the scotch. Well, not in the way he likes it stirred anyway (Google it if you’re not in the know – it’s very worth knowing…). Top stuff. (Postscript: The Luminaire finally closed this weekend. I've just heard from a friend that the last two shows had to be cancelled due to the snow. I'm very sad to hear this - that place should definitely have gone out with a big loud bang. Sincere thanks to Andy and all his great staff for the music and memories x)

Thurs: EOTR Xmas party at XOYO. Singing Adams were great as ever, despite Steven Adams being a sickly chap (it’s going round – Bernie felt quite rubbish, and my glands were up – bloody poorliness). Sadly, by the time the superb wizard-outfit-clad Archie Bronson Outfit took to the stage, we were all flagging a bit. So home we went. (I was later baited by Kieran texting me that he and Bernie were eating chips in bed. Bastards.)

Fri: The Local Xmas Bash. We were quite good at the Quiz (didn’t win, but I got an honourable mention for naming the hilarious team of lovely trade unionist types sitting next to us as The Men You’d Want To Hang – they were a bunch of wits). And The Travelling Band were harmony heaven as ever and very funny. I burnt my tongue on a mince pie – am sure some hoped it would shut me up. As if.

Sat: spectacular snowfall. Can’t let snow stop play, mind. It is, after all, just a bit of snow, which bizarrely seems to make London lose its mind. Not me - love it. Was invited into town for sandwich and conversation (sandwich ended up being pie, the mash was disappointing but the conversation wasn't). Felt a bit dreadful later on – got under my blanket and watched Scent Of A Woman (again). The lovely man in Blockbusters, who gives me good tips on film, asked me if I was having a quiet night when he saw my choice. As I turned away, he said “Hoo-Haa!” just like Al Pacino in the film. It made me really laugh, and I chuckled all the way home. Sometimes, people are just brilliant.

Sun: felt like shit. Chest hurt. Sinuses too. Day Nurse is good stuff, though. Head to Wood Green to deliver Mr Carluccio’s choccy panetone to my dear pals Bernie and Kieran (they cracked it straight open – delicious stuff – will make the best bread and butter pudding…hint, hint…). Then Kentish Town for Nad’s birthday lunch. I’ve eaten in The Oxford on Kentish Town Road many times. The food is great. But I’m telling you now – watch out for the ill-mannered, speccy too-cool-for-school prick who works behind the bar. Unfeasibly rude. Thing is, he just didn’t seem to get the concept of customer service – so he shouldn’t be doing that job, surely? And he needed to pull his bloody pants up too. Knob.

And then another gig (really, that’s enough for one week) – Orange Goblin at the O2 Islington. Bit of a gang there, great gig (Firebird were great, Mr Steer handsome as ever), saw the very dear Mr Alan French on the merch stall, sporting cool new spectacles (BTW, I need specs. I can’t read small print easily and am doing that holding-stuff-at-a-distance like the elderly do – bloody hell – but I have found some quite nice Anglo American and Sol Moscot specs that I like, so all is not lost).

Mon: snot central. Like a total knobhead, because my Northern work ethic kicked in, I offered to go in FOR FREE to work this morning. I just can’t help myself. I ought to start being a bit more businesslike about my time and stop doing everything for nothing (few weeks ago, I mucked in for Howard Local, running the door at a gig for the princely sum of a cheese sandwich because I felt sorry for the bands who weren’t making any money. Yup, I'm a saint. If I believed in God, I'd fully expect a trip to Heaven when I pop my clogs).

Day finished on a ridiculous high, as we had the Blunt works do, which consisted of late lunch at Elk In The Woods (lovely Scandinavian style restaurant on Camden Passage, Islington - staff charming, service excellent, food delicious), daft amount of booze (sambucca shots and champagne at 4pm, anyone?), followed by a two hour session at Lucky Voice (which turned into a 4 hour session – I kid you not). And to all those of you who said you’d never sing-a-longa – bollocks. We couldn’t get you off the mic! Any evening which culminates in a mass hug/hokey cokey to Hey Jude, followed by A Fairytale In New York has to be a winner. Performance of the evening – Satoshi Minakawa, Japanese photography genius par excellence, doing the most amazing and unlikely Satchmo (Louis Armstrong to you lot) and It’s A Wonderful World. I had no idea that would happen. Really. None.

Tuesday: built my new bed. Bed will be hilariously known as The Field Of Dreams, for reasons known only to a select few friends (and Kevin Costner buffs).

Wednesday: Drove to Yorkshire with Mr Heneghan in tow. (I asked him to bring a flask in case of weather emergencies. He did. An empty one. I suggested next time I give him a lift, he might want to bring his chocolate teapot - if Armageddon hits, we'll be fully prepared and soon have it licked - Armageddon, that is...not the chocolate teapot.) Have already overeaten rather badly and only been here 3 hours. A sea of beige grub stretches ahead as far as the eye can see (until next Tuesday, at least). Happy Holidays!

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.