“Well, that was kind of nice”

Much of the music that I wanted to see having already taken place (and much of that at the same time), Glastonbury Sunday, as usual, was a day of loitering in the more unusual areas of the festival site. As Rob has already reported, we whiled away the morning by watching a mock wedding in the Chapel of Love and Loathing (free divorce with every wedding, apparently), drinking more of the sweet pear cider, and…

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“Can We Have That Dinosaur Please?”

Saturday morning brought Hayseed Dixie to the Pyramid stage with their unique brand of hillbilly rock covers. My initial enthusiasm started to wane after a while, in the face of what was, essentially, the same joke repeated for the best part of an hour, but there’s still some degree of amusement to be had as they start to play each song, and it slowly dawns on you what they are actually playing. (Er, yes, it’s…

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“A pair of good boots should be fine; wellies are a bit OTT” – BBC News pre-Glastonbury Weather Forecast

There was a point, some time on Friday morning, around the time I had finally stopped bailing out our non-waterproof borrowed tent, decamped to the spare (thanks Rob…) and begun hoping my soggy jeans would dry while wiping away the mud that had encrusted on my feet after wading through a pool of indeterminately composed filth on an abortive flip-flopped journey down to the Guardian lounge (Sally, still warm, non-smelly and untouched by mud, had…

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Flight 5065

In the end, on our London Eye thing, we were joined not by Martin White and his stupid accordion playing face, which I briefly glimpsed disappearing into the London skyline with Robin Ince a couple of pods ahead of us, but by everyone’s favourite posh guitar duo, teh Turin Brakes, along with a gang of African drummers. The nature of the event was that you didn’t know quite who you were going to get, so…

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Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.

We’re off to a thing on the London Eye tonight (see! What with this and U2 if poverty and trade aren’t history and fair by 9pm tonight, I will be very cross*), so as a result I “packed” for Glasto last night. Consequently I’ve spent most of the day remembering things that I probably should have put in my bag. For example, it’s slightly possible that my festival experience this weekend will be improved somewhat…

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Why I Need To Get Out More

As a small postscript to my U2 review, I’ve just remembered that at one point Mr Bongo asked us all to kindly get out our telephones and Make Poverty History. I’m not sure if we made poverty history, but if not, I think I know why: it’s nothing to do with the reluctance of the G8 leaders to cooperate, but rather because of Mr Ox’s appalling grammar. Our specific instructions, displayed on the video screens…

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“This one’s for all the doctors and nurses. Especially the nurses.”

Say what you like about Irish megastars U2–and you might indeed think them to be slightly pretentious, self righteous middle aged rock stars (hey, you might even want to pick yourself up a “MAKEBONOHISTORY” T-shirt and wander around with it on, I think I might when we see them in Barcelona later this year, you know, just to test the Spanish sense of irony)–they certainly know how to put on a good show. Several songs…

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“No! It’s Not Burnt”

In the end, I survived my displacement from our flat on Saturday with little more than a sore head the next day, but this was after an unexpectedly drunken evening at Claire’s birthday on Friday night, which ended with Sally waking me from my drunken slumber and forcibly dragging me out of the venue to catch the bus–ah, my ability to fall into an alcohol-induced sleep at the slightest provocation knows no bounds. I was…

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