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.

Dunn's: Fabulous Baker Boys (And Girls)

It is a truth universally acknowledged - I love cake. Big fan of toast. Love a bit of crumpet. All about the baked goods, me. Living in Crouch End affords ample opportunity for buying this stuff. Over the years, I've whittled down the places that are worthy of my hard-earned for all things cakey and floury, and right at the top of the list is a local institution and treasure - Dunn's bakery.

When I heard an outlet of Gail's (of Hampstead fame) was opening in Crouch End, I was pretty anxious for Dunn's. According to my friend Massimo at The Haberdashery, the opening of Gail's actually caused huge excitement among his clientele. Yup, the Bugaboo Brigade were all hysterical over Gail and her forthcoming goody attractions.

Needless worry. Having done a taste test experiment with the Brummie (test consisted of bread and butter - what else?), it can be confirmed that the spelt and honey loaf from Dunns, weighing in at £1.70, knocks the wheat-free socks off a loaf half the size / almost twice the price (£3.20 for a tiny loaf I could eat at one sitting? Are you off your rocker, Gail?) from Gail's. This loaf from Dunn's is bread nirvana, wheatless ambrosia, bread fit for a Queen. Gail's had just opened when the taste test took place, and The Brummie and I also carried out a cuppa test. The coffee was good, but the staff seemed a bit clueless and the café layout was cramped. I wasn't surprised, only a few weeks later, to see they had closed down while shopfitters rectified what was obviously a bad bit of planning. In the interest of fairness, I know Gail chucks out a lovely pastry - when the NYC massive were over, they brought some back to Disgracelands, and I happily polished one off (ancient proverb: always put a gift cake in the mouth).

I had a lovely Dunn's experience today. Running my errands, I'd popped to buy a puncture repair kit to fix my wellingtons for this coming weekend. I refuse to buy new wellies, I'm a resourceful girl and will be thrilled if my make-do-and-mend capabilites are inventive enough to give my old rubber boots another lease of life. Re-cycling indeed...sorry, I digress. So, I've spent some cash in the bike shop, popped to M&S to buy flowers, and on the way back, I pop into Dunn's for some of that lovely bread. Imagine my dismay when I realise I only have 85p left in my pocket. I'm in a bit of a rush, so I asked, slightly red of face, if I'd be able to pay by card. "Oh, of course, no problem" replied the sweet young thing behind the counter. I laughed, saying I'd thought it a bit ridiculous, and also lazy of me, not to just run to the cashpoint. She assured me she didn't mind. "I had one man ask if he could pay for a bread roll with his card", she confided in a conspiratorial tone, "for 26p. So, really - don't worry", she added.

She took my loaf off to cut (medium sliced, if you're wondering), then came back to pick up another loaf, and cut that too. She put them both on the counter. "I didn't cut that first one very well, you can have them both for the same price". I was overcome with joy at this point, and the rather handsome male staff member standing next to her wanted to know what she'd done to make me so pleased. Not wanting to drop her in any sort of bakery shit, I just said "she's done a very nice thing and she'll probably go to heaven", to which he replied "I doubt it, she's my sister." The customer next to me laughed at this, and it was yet another reason why Dunn's gets my spends - the staff are absolutely lovely. A big thank you to Imogen and Lewis for making my day - I came straight back home and had two slices toasted, heavily spread with slightly salted butter. Perfect.

http://www.dunns-bakery.co.uk/

Debris

Many moons ago, when I was a wee thing, barely out of the school gates, and long before the birth of my second-hand empire, I used to sell stuff on fleamarkets. I'd amass stuff, then sell it on to other folks who could give it a lovely, new home. There was no car or driving licence for me back then, and so car boot sales were a thing to visit for fun, with a view to buying more crap. I loved it and still do. So, getting a call from The Brummie on Friday evening, suggesting a team-up to expunge old tat from the back of a motor seemed like a sterling idea.

Having been a good girl on Saturday evening (a short visit to Aces & Eights at Tufnell Park to catch up with pals consisted of me drinking lime and soda, admiring the excellent 70s porn adorning the walls, and approving of the luxurious pubic hair the ladies had back then), I was up at the crack of dawn (really, if even one of you uses this phrase at me, you're history) to load Betty Ford and head off into the breaking day with Brummie in tow.

The Princess May School car boot sale on Kingsland Road (Stoke Newington end) is a jolly good little affair. Well organised, run by friendly proper Londoners, good tea stall (I had a delicious bit of carrot cake for £1.20 - bargain), arrive by 6.45am, all over by 2pm. Worth getting up for, and a pleasure to spend half a day in good-humoured Brum company. Of all the boot sales I've actually stood at in London, this is probably one of the nicest. Not too big and cheap at a tenner. Others I've parked up at are:

• Kilburn/Maida Vale St Augustines - if you want to feel thoroughly hassled by people wanting to steal your old life for 5p or less, go ahead. One conversation I took part in went a little bit like this: Buyer: "How much for these shoes?" Shoes in question, brand new orange suede sandals, still with tag on, worth £40. Me: "£3." Buyer "Will you take a pound?" Me, patiently and quite brightly: "Oh...er, no, they're new and current season, well worth £3." Buyer: "Hmmm. Well, I have a pound." Me, less patient: "The sandals are £3." Buyer: "Won't you take a pound?" Me: "No, I'm sorry." Buyer walks away. Buyer comes back. Buyer: "Will you not take a pound?" Me, actually looking at Buyer now like she is unhinged, and with a disdain I might reserve for David Cameron or that pasty, pudding-faced chap who sang for Keane: "I'm afraid I'd rather give them to Oxfam than let you have them for a pound." And she didn't mind. Or, in fact, stump up the asked-for £3. Maybe she was mad. But then, I smiled, because I should have known it was all Part Of The Game. That said, if you're going as a shopper, it's worth a nosy. I've had some right laughs standing there, but never made much cash.

• Battersea Car Boot (Battersea Park School): this is in a different league. It was my venue of choice to rid myself of virtually everything I owned pre-Oz trip. I made a small fortune over a couple of weeks. If you've got good stuff to sell, particularly old stuff / collectibles, this is the place to go. It's expensive, though - if you know your goodies are likely to appeal to a broad crowd, book to be among the first lot of cars in (about £35) and you get to set up before the dealers can start hounding you. All very civilised too - Sunday trading and you don't have to be there until 10.30am to set up.

If you fancy doing a car boot, this list from Time Out has others I've shopped at, all worth a bit of a jaunt:

http://www.timeout.com/london/feature/1193/londons-best-car-boot-sales

I was sitting here in the late afternoon sunshine, on my sofa, tip-tapping away, and suddenly, The Faces "Debris" filled the room. Is this what 'serendipitous' means? Whatever. It's perfect. One of my favourite songs from "A Nod's As Good As A Wink...", with the wonderful Ronnie Lane (my favourite tiny Face) singing lead, backed by Rod The Mod, written about his Dad shopping on a Sunday morning market. I'd named this post something relatively witty, but Ronnie has inspired me with a much sweeter title. Brought a tear to my eye, as Mr Lane often can. Or perhaps it's the effect of that early start...

Love him. RIP.

Post-Holiday Funk

No, it's not a lost album by Sly And The Family Stone. It's a nasty malaise I seem to have picked up. There's no instant remedy it seems (so, no haranguing the patient, thank you). Imagining myself as Doctor Quinn (I said Quinn) Medicine Woman (chamois leather top / lot of hair / cowboy hat), or Hattie Jacques as Matron (that's more like it), I prescribed the following:

Mmmm. Nice, tasty medicine.

(The chips and a lovely vodka tonic, not Lady Married's rack).

Further pick-me-ups included self-administration of a large bollocking and an early night. Now on the road to a complete writing recovery. Thank you, well-wishers.

(Postscript: part of the recovery process was aided by cross-Atlantic Skype. Evil Hurricaine Irene is NY bound. Please leave Brooklyn alone, Irene. It contains a smashing brewery, some nice music venues, and two people I love dearly. Remember - if you're reading, write that inky letter, LouLou. Could be your last chance to write with a proper nib. I am now officially a monger of doom.)

The Plimsoll Line

Three stripe heaven.

There's something you don't know about me. Obviously, there's a lot you dont know about me. Some of you know this particular thing, though - school friends, old friends, old-skool friends. I have a lifelong love of trainers. Don't be so shocked. Us high-heelers can have a shady flat past, y'know.

I'm prompted to write following my usual mosey through the Guardian Guide this Saturday. Blogroll this week gives us a whole heap of blogs dedicated to trainers/sneakers (much as I like the word 'sneaker', I don't feel qualified to use it. I'm not American). It offers up a roll call of the great and the good pumps (love that word too) throughout the decades, and made me think about a chronology of my own hi-tops, lowcuts, runners and various other canvas, rubber and nylon variations on a theme. On one of the listed blogs, I'm completely taken aback to find there's a man living in Liverpool who trod the same footwear path as me in his youth. Uncanny - it's like reading about myself. (I've only read his blog properly since writing this, and it makes me realise how on a footwear wavelength the whole country was back in the late 70s / early 80s - truly filled my heart with joy to read his musings.)

http://shoeclassics.com/index.html

For me, must have all started with plimsolls (another corker of a word). They'll have been black. Elasticated gusset. At some point I'll have begged for white. And no doubt, Mum will have let me have them. Early junior school, I got my first proper trainers, but they were unbranded. Some odd brand, not even Hi-Tec (I have never owned any Silver Shadows, the trainer of Dads everywhere). Aged about 9, I got my first pair of branded running shoes. They were emerald green, suede and nylon, made by Gola. I loved them - they coincided with the first time I was captain of a school sports team (rounders - I can still throw a ball as far as most men I know, overarm, not some girly pussy underarm shit).

Dunlop Green Flash. Relatively cheap and not too cool back then. A resurgence about 10-15 years ago surprised and cheered me. I had about three pairs of the Gola trainers. They saw me through to high school. First pair of boy's footy trainers - Mitre Memphis. I had a pair of monkey boots too. Not trainers exactly, but worth an honourable mention, because this little tomboy loved them way back when.

Brand of champions (and me)

And then I fell for Mr Dassler's brand hook, line and sneaker. It started with Adidas Kick. Cheapest bottom-of-the-range black leather, classic three white stripes. Perfect for playing hockey on a gravel pitch. I had pair after pair of them. Also had a black vinyl Adidas sports bag with the classic trefoil. Then, I went traitor and got some Patrick Kevin Keegan endorsed footy trainers (and the matching shin pads - I am a girl, really, I am).

If they were good enough for King Kev, they were good enough for me

Now, don't be thinking I come from money, folks. I don't. But I was good at sport and my Mum was a cool bird who knew it was money well spent. If I'm busy playing hockey / netball / tennis for the school, I can't be off snogging boys and getting into trouble, surely? (I was, but don't shatter the old dear's illusions). And the second I could get a job, I did. In a sports shop. In the trainer department. And then my tastes got fancy. I had John McEnroe's Nike Wimbledon. My first pair of Nikes (Adidas will always rock my world). As soon as Adidas brought out the Los Angeles trainer, replete with a shock absorber system in the heel (what utter bollocks), I bought them. I had one pair of SL80s. Around this time, I went a bit sports casual - Fred Perry (navy, sky blue 2 stripes), brown penny loafers, blue Pods from Italy.

Give good shoe, them Italians

But once the totter of high heels took over, my buying habits abated a little. My love, however, has never abated. I currently own: Adidas Superstars (an all-time favourite - classic white, bought in LA 12 years ago), Adidas Stan Smiths (white, Velcro fastening - annoyingly, they still squeak, no matter how much leather feed / dubbing / Vaseline I rub on the fittings), Nike Air Rifts (originals, white, as soon as they launched in the UK - I had 3 pairs, sold 2), Adidas Supernova (pale blue - I thank my lucky stars when fitted for these, my style of running suits a pair of running shoes that look good, not some mental day-glo nylon madness). I recently bought some tan leather PF Flyers, but took them back the next day, knowing I'd bought them because they are a great looking pump, but would just never get the wear. I'm considering some Superga canvas in cream, to replace Converse. And unsurprisingly, I've had umpteen pairs of Converse over the years (thanks, Ramones). The Ex still laughs that my opening gambit to him all those years ago was "those Converse have the same colour rubber sole as the canvas" about the latest royal blue Jack Purcells he was wearing. My finest chat-up line ever (after "get your coat, you've pulled". I really did. And it worked.).