Apple pie without Wensleydale cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze (Back to School)

Current mood: Autumny

Summer is over, it's official. My carnival-cold has abated and passed along to my brother via our "twin-thing" thing just as I return from my last festival of the year, with nothing more than a lone twiglet of despair collecting fluff at the bottom of my pocket to comfort me.Dismounting from our 9-seater chariot on Sunday morning, our invasion force set up base camp by the canal from which to mount our one-day tourist offensive on the Reading site. Equipped with water bottles and cameras, our grockle-platoon proceeded to the battleship for a leisurely, but warlike punt down the river. As we came to a stop our battalion flooded through the gates, just stopping to don the traditional green regimental wristband of the doddering holidaymaker, and the hostilities began. We waded cautiously through the tiny black-clad natives to get to the overpriced, warm beer-like fluid, with which we were to settle our nerves. Then, we were overcome, either by the poisonous fumes emanating from the evil liquid, or sheer force of numbers, we were swept along with the child-shaped inhabitants into their inner sanctum. The noise, oh the noise, the wailing and gnashing of pizza-stained teeth (always check your teeth for pizza), the nasty food covered in a kind of film of grease (the Pffffeifffer beast, not the genius of Ms Newton-John or Mr Travollting for this food), oh the humanity.No more one day festivals for me.

But Pearl Jam were great, yay Eddie! (as was the 10 minute breast-off in the middle of Placebo, yay breasts!)


Currently listening : Martika By Martika

Relaxing with Otters

Current mood: dizzy

Huge disappointment faced me when I arrived back in Devon for Beautiful Days. I was promised Martha Wainwright, but there was no Martha, where could Martha be, what did you do with Martha? After my Martha-blues were washed away by a torrent of sky-water I drowned my remaining sorrows with the lovely Otter ale and a game of Bollywood top trumps, hoorah! Thereafter my life followed a pattern of folky drunken fun during the day and mindless spiegel tent flail-dancing by night, this lasted a mere 3 days until I was brought, kicking and screaming, from the comforting womb of festivaldom into the sterile, yet blood splattered delivery room of real life.

Things that were poo:
children that make noise in the mornings;
children that run around with no sense of direction;
children that cry for no reason;
children that cry for a reason;
children that are evil;
children who appear not to be evil, they're not fooling me.
Things that were groovy:
the Levellers, obviously;
secret gigs at the bimble inn;
the Demon Barber Roadshow, complete with morris, clog and rapper dancing genius;
Julie Fowlis and her unintelligible throat;
Dylan Moran in a very squished and numb-bummy tent;
Tiny Tea Tent tea;
Seth Lakeman and his bizarre furry helmet & horns mask.

In fact yesterday, I managed to catch Seth Lakeman as he whores himself round the various HMVs of this land. He played an impressively unamplified, but annoyingly short set, though I can't complain too much as it was free and I got an extra CD signed for a mate on a beer's commission. And finally... for the first time in a while I returned with a festival cold (a little too much moshing with the unwashed, perchance) and I have been snotting blood out of my face for the last few days...because I'm worth it.


Currently listening : Mouth to Mouth By The Levellers

What I Did On My Holidays And Ting

Current mood: folky

After barely recovering from my birthday (apple-smoky-karaoke-cheese-really-quite-drunky-nearly-quite-vomity) celebrations it was time to be whisked off to Devon for a few days of Sidmouth Folk Week. One long roller coaster of clotted cream teas, crab sandwiches, homity pie, real ale, very tiny old ladies strapped into their huge accordions and sand-in-your-pants fun. One of my discoveries was the Scottish-Gaelic Julie Fowlis (Winner of a BBC Radio 3 Folk Award, so ok the BBC discovered her first) who put on a bloody good show with her band, including John McCusker (Kate Rusby's husband, which reminds me: Ronan Sodding Keating. First he tries to ruin Kate Rusby by forcing her to duet with him. I said duet. Then murders a perfectly harmless Goo Goo Dolls song. This man(?) must be stopped before he inherits the throne of Ireland from Dana and tries to take over the world, shaping it into his evil, mumsy image whilst still keeping on the right side of Granny...breathe) on violin & a funny Irishman worried that the Scottish contingent would beat him up backstage (I think I could nominate another funny little Irishman more deserving of a beating...breathe). I Missed out on Eliza Carthy after queuing for half an hour as they let in all the season ticket holders first (damn you organised people of the world), but managed to catch her Dad's show just down the road. Which I like to think was both better and shorter, so more time for clotted cream fun before the evening show at the Ham, 'Chris Wood & Friends' (ooh he's got a lot of friends). Then, today, it's back to the alcoholics and spam-faced children of the New Forest, though to be fair there's plenty of them in Sidmouth too, it's just easier to ignore when they're just a passing curiosity rather than in-your-arsing-face reality. Next stop 'Beautiful Days'. Sweet dreams.



Currently listening : And the Glass Handed Kites By Mew

The homeless can see your thong!* (Overwrought & Enfeebled Birthday Blog)

Current mood: old

The 31 Ages of Jon

As my 31st birthday has been approaching, and has now arrived, I have been looking back at all the wasted opportunities, bitter unfulfillment and directionless wandering that has been my life thus far. No memories, only jaded melancholy, a dull sense of disappointment at nature's betrayal and the feeling of being poked in the eye by karma remains. With the only consolation being that due to my ineptitude at relationships and inadvertent chat up lines ("I've got so many comics in my bag right now"**) no babies have been forthcoming from my inadequate loins (thank you loins! praise be! What is the point of children? I'm sorry I just don't get it. Apart from leaving your mark on the world, which you could do (with much less hassle and expense) by a few well placed criminal acts against pigeon's bone stalks, or getting a job as a freelance, student abortionist, on commission).But then I remember the only real, tangible thing about birthdays is the (wait for it).....PRESSIES!!!!And the only feeling left is the tingle of my fingers anticipating the paper-ripping goodness to come, as I scour the gift tags looking for the name of Jenny's rechristened mum, "Shaniqua"!
*uncredited quote, attributed to local booze-hound. Said to Lindsey, who was perched on the window-sill of the pub, facing out to the tourist information hut, where the trolls/alcoholics/outcasts of Ringwood society like to gather for their general meetings (of which only one is homeless, and the underwear in question could not be classed as a thong. Rendering the entire quote at best an inaccurate, though vaguely humorous generalisation, and at worst wrong and offensive and evil, so there).
**actually a favourite line of Ian C, of "comics pouch" & "butt hymen" fame, but used here for comic effect.


Currently listening : Rabbit Fur Coat By Jenny Lewis with The Watson Twins

Death Threats & How the Rabbit Can't Manage it

Current mood: Shaky Stevens

After some lovely threatening behaviour from the various trolls (yes I know I overuse that word, but if it grunts like a troll & thieves like a troll...) & inbred nasty-doers that frequent this grubby corner of the New Forest and some time wasting by the police I shakingly sat down to consider what other delights my place of work has in store for me. The evil entity and ex-boss known as The Rabbit is coming to visit on Tuesday to interview innocent & unsuspecting applicants for the job left vacant by the last manager she hounded out of the company. Luckily I will be away at Sidmouth Folk Week (a handy bit of scheduling) leaving the staff to ridicule the beast by munching carrots in her scrunched up snout. I don't understand this kind of manager that takes a job where they don't really know what they're doing and spends their time throwing their weight around just to make themselves feel like they're in charge. Happily our current boss leaves you alone to do what you do best (which in my case is sitting around doing nothing, hoorah), offers advice when you need it and manages not to scream at your head-face, unlike the floppy-eared one.
Maybe it's time to find a new job. If any prospective employers are reading I'll list my extensive qualifications:
1. Ability to make any piece of footwear emit a vom-inducing smell within minutes of wearing them;
2. Multitasking - Five years experience of book/comic/newspaper/magazine reading whilst also listening to the best music available to my ears;
3. Skilled in developing marketing strategies that increase participation and revenue;
4. Nah, not really;
5. That's about it.
6. Giz-a-job!

yes, this is where I work, mmmm