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*)

Spring: Gettin' Busy With It

Sometimes, I wonder where time goes. Well, I can tell you. It flies. When you’re having fun (and other stuff), that is. It’s been a busy start to Spring.

Popping into my favourite café one day for bunting chat, it turned out that Massimo was a little short-staffed. And so, my new temporary employ as waitress began. I managed to get through a whole Saturday and Sunday without major incident (apart from a little spilt milk, which I didn’t bother crying over). According to my new boss, I acquitted myself very well, and there’s a job for me if I decide to change career direction:

Small Helping

Lucky me, I was invited along to The Borderline to see Arbouretum play (by Anthea at Thrill Jockey records). I’d wanted to see them for a while, but the last time they played, I was away Down Under. So, I rocked up at The Borderline for an evening of heavy noodling. It’s a small world, this. I bumped into Michael Singing Adams, whose girlfriend Lucy also works at Thrill Jockey. I had no idea. I see them at so many gigs, but never knew what she did for her spending money. Thoroughly enjoyable evening - Arbouretum were well worth waiting for. I haven't seen a band look so pleased to be applauded in ages. They kept putting their thumbs up. I love this.

Somerset House was holding the second Pick Me Up, this year curated by a friend and graphic design favourite of mine, Anthony Burrill. Anthony is a clever man – his work is so simple, and often plagiarised. It’s a standing joke that my home is like a little museum of his work. Anthony very kindly gave me a really nice goody bag of his stuff and I bought a print by Linus Kraemer, depicting 360˚ of cake. I like cake, me.

Met Up with Helen P, Lou W and Scooter Steve (he wants to be known as this on my blog – just passed his bike test, he thinks Biker Boy sounds a bit on the camp side, and that pointing out he has a scooter is a little bit cooler, in an espresso-sipping/Dolce Vita kinda way. I've explained carefully that he won't get a new girlfriend by having a snappy moniker on my blog - getting a decent personality would work better). Saw The Boss from Blunt too. She was slightly worse for wear, having been up until 3am at a friend’s surprise birthday party. I think the only reason she came along was because Ian Stevenson, one of the very fine graphic artists Blunt represents, was part of the exhibition and doing a spot of DJing at the event. It was good to see Ian and his luxurious beard, whose work (his work, not the beard – the beard is brilliant, but its talent for art has yet to be discovered) is superb, funny and with a dark side that appeals to me greatly:

The Beard can't draw...yet

All this fun culminated in a massive piss-up at Aces and Eights. This is a relatively new bar by Tufnell Park tube station – painted black with diner-style booths, bit American dive bar, with a selection of decent whiskey and beer (LouLou - come back from NY soon - it's like Dick Manitoba's lite). There are a row of bras hung above the bar – I think the premise goes that if you hang up your bra, you drink for free. This was very tempting, as the imported ale I was necking was over £4 a bottle. Wisdom, however, decreed The Lads should stay in their lacy confines. It was a good night. Lots of old friends, some not so old, all good company. DJ played some top tunes, which culminated in me acting out, in bastardised sign language, the entire lyrics of Bat Out Of Hell. There was also a picking-up competition. Newly named Scooter Steve won this by trumping me, picking up both me AND Lou W at the same time. Like some mental Scales Of Justice. Hilarious.

I had a photoshoot for The Times at The Royal Albert Hall with Hamish. Hamish Brown is a well-known portrait photographer – he’s snapped pretty much every famous modern footballer you can imagine, and a whole heap of top musicians (his shots of Iggy and Dave Grohl are two of my favourites). It was a pretty straightforward shoot, but this didn’t stop me from having a bit of a sleepless night (will pre-shoot nerves ever go away?). It was a nice team on the shoot, all was going well. Until the schoolkids turned up. 200 of ‘em. With bongos:

Little bongo-bashing fuckers

My views on bongos are well documented. Bongos are fine when placed within musical arrangements, preferably as part of a combo, kept within a properly constructed tune. Not just fucking getting banged on randomly by some crystal-toting trustafarian outside his tent at a festival at 7am. Or, by some idiot standing right next to me on a train platform while I was trying to get to work in peace (fo' real - picture my indignation – if he hadn’t been so handsome, I’d have decked him). Needless to say, the acoustics in the RAH are excellent. So, try and imagine the aural hell for me as 200 little shits knock their skins about while I’m trying to work. Aaw, bless ‘em.

Luckily, I got out at a reasonable time, meaning that I could catch up with pals to see Pål. Pål being the Norwegian phenomenon that is Moddi. Met up with Kieran, Bernie, Nads and Scooter Steve (how long can I keep calling him that? It may get shortened to SS, but the worry there is if I put him in a black leather trenchcoat, he actually might look a bit Herr Flick). Benjamin Folke Thomas on first. He had a good voice, decent fingerpicking, and quite a good line in chat between songs. Moddi up next. He has a new cellist this time (I hear from The Scot this is a regular occurrence – ten a penny, these pretty and talented cellists in Norway, it would seem). His performance was excellent, but I think because I’d seen him do such an amazing set quite recently, it didn’t blow me away quite so much. Maybe it’s because I was so tired from my 5am start. Briefly saw The Scot and Ken, his music PR friend. Ken seemed quite pissed, The Scot didn’t. Hence, Ken was very funny and making some truly terrible jokes, which were rendered brilliant by their sheer crapness. Saw some of Ed Laurie, but by now I was flagging badly – I think I may have started to nod off…sorry, Ed.

Next night, we were very kindly invited by Elbow’s management to see them play at The O2 arena. I’m no fan of big gigs. I struggle with anything bigger than The Forum, it’s just not my cup of tea and most of the acts I want to see wouldn’t be playing somewhere like that anyway. And I've been listening to a lot of Bad Brains, not Elbow. But thanks to Hamish doing a sterling job on their recent PR shots, we were being treated and actually, a treat was in store.

Despite my reservations, it was a lovely experience. We travelled to the venue by riverboat; collected our treat tickets; sat in front row seats; watched a great band do some top songs; saw a witty, charming front man have an audience in his Northern palm; had a thoroughly good evening. I even shed a tear at one point (bloody pathetic – must get a grip, and also a bit more sleep).

All this fun has to have a downside – it came in the form of a two-day stomach bug with added flu symptoms. And so, as Spring has now officially sprung, I’ll be doing a little personal Spring cleaning. Which means nothing more racy or exciting than taking better care of my poor, fragile old body, getting fit (I'm in the market for new trainers and a tennis racket tomorrow) and maybe painting my toenails. Cos that’s how I Spring roll.

Tat For Tits At The Haberdashery

Aren't breasts brilliant? Much nicer to look at than anything the chaps have got going on (actually, I'm generally quite happy when looking at mens bits, if the truth be told). Tons of hilarious names for boobs too: top bollocks, fun bags, knockers and my own personal favourite - dirty pillows. And to think that something so wonderful can be harboring what is now the most common form of cancer in the UK.

My life has been touched by breast cancer twice. Heartbreakingly, I watched as my dear sister Mary died from the disease, and then my very brave and ballsy sister Helen was diagnosed with grade 3 and fought her own battle - 7 years down the line, and she's still winning. Bravo, our kid - you're a bloody star.

A few years back, I decided to try to raise money for Breakthrough Breast Cancer, as they launched their 40 mile overnight fundraising walk round the sights and streets of London. Roping in my nearest and dearest ladyfriends, we were given a target of £6000. Apart from begging literally everyone we knew for their hard-earned, we also ran a charity stall in the centre of Crouch End (at this point I coined the phrase "Tat For Tits", but we weren't sure if Crouch End was ready for my wit). We had items donated from local people, Harvey Nichols gave us pink champagne to raffle, so we set up by Barclays bank one fine Saturday and peddled our wares. Really good fun and we raised £400 that day. The four of us ended up raising over £7000 by the time the walk came around - we even managed the walk without a blister or bit of chafing (I'll never forget the sight of the very large lady walker dressed in a bright pink tutu, whose thighs had rubbed together so badly at the top that she ended up walking like Yosemite Sam...)

So I was more than happy to oblige when the lovely Massimo and Greg of The Haberdashery in Crouch End called me to ask if I'd run the charity stall at their next bar boot sale in aid of Breast Cancer Awareness month. It was a top night - the boys had the usual array of sellers bringing along their vintage bits and bobs/craft/housey stuff. My stall was filled with donations from local businesses and customers, and the boys had donated a cakestand filled with pink cupcakes to sell. My own donation was candy pink polka dot bunting (of course):

None More Black Meets None More Pink

The fellas had lots of lovely snacks to sell, and they were knocking up some unfeasibly good cocktails - I managed to neck the most delicious strawberry caipiriha. And the entertainment was top stuff too - The Marjorie Belles sang some sweet swing numbers perfectly fitting the evening - space was so limited, they performed perched on top of bistro chairs:

"From The Top, Ladies"

Toot Toot Tootsies

Find out more about them here: http://www.themarjoriebelles.com/

It was a huge success - Massimo tells me the stall raised over £150 on the night, and that a couple of thousand pounds were raised throughout Crouch End (The Haberdashery also held a masked tea party as part of the week-long events). All for a truly good cause, I had a ball and I think the chaps did too:

The Cream Of Café Society