That's the Most Ridiculous Reaction to an Umbrella I've Ever Seen

I have come to the conclusion that I am allergic to clean. Ever since I got back from the glorious mud extravaganza that was Beautiful Days (Ha!) my nose seems to have entered itself into a Cheryl Baker endorsed sneezing competition & my floating, disembodied head is drowning in a sea of liquid cotton wool. Maybe it was the excessive amount of otters that inveigled their way down my craving gullet; or the crunchy, post-midnight, tiny tea's; or possibly the crisp on the outside, bleeding on the inside, "Sausage Time!" sausages; perhaps it was the sight of KT Tunstall's eye-hating trousers; could it have been the stomach-tightening absence of curried mackerel; or just the ubiquitous, cider-coloured, poo-flavoured, shin-deep, thigh-toning, bastard mud?

Whatever the cause of my current malaise, none of the above prevented me from enjoying a plum filled Boney M tribute act, called, unimaginatively enough, "Boney M" or the sight of my mother, I can only hope, humorously, hitting on my mates (one rouge-tinted member, especially). I even managed to stubbornly and resolutely appreciate the mesmerising genius of Willy Mason, while all around were slowly succumbing to boredom.

Once the truly frightening Terror Trumps game was out of the way, a whole world of fun with a capital 'M' was opened up to us. We experienced the Irish, dinner-time drunkenness of Kila, the Welsh tea-time stonedness of Mark Howard Marks and, of course, the English, night-time what-have-you-gotness of The Levs. We tittered along to the strange Gogol Bordello roadie that couldn't help but shout "Eh! Eh! Khallo!" fifteen times into every available microphone, and we all perfected our intricate dance routines to the mammoth Bellowhead: Charlie vogued, Si bogled as if to Aswad, Jennie jigged in an alliterative style and Andy swayed as if his life depended on it.

Oh how we laughed at the naughty man that tried to dump his remaining illicit substances on us on the last night at the Bimble Inn, as David tried to smooth talk a couple of wayward Levellers groopies without his unpurchased Miss Piggy hat until jammy crumpets could no longer be resisted. As if that wasn't enough, earlier that night I caught an exciting glimpse of Seth Lakeman's finely toned ears, as I was on my way for a wee, with Bill Bailey's greatest hits still ringing in my own flabby, aural appendages.

The weekend reached it's moist climax on Monday morning with a torrent of sludge-enhancing rain, culminating in us being rescued from our heavily weighed down and fast sinking Fiat by a very nice sadist and his large bondage chain, which he used to tie us to his sexy, leather Tractor. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and evacuate the rest of the Devonian, refried beans from my bowels. It is, indeed, Sausage Time!

This blog was brought to you by the words: 'Taxi', 'Ahoy', 'Eh-Eh-Khallo' and by the letter 'M' for MUD.


Currently listening: Super Taranta! by Gogol Bordello