Fuck Viral, We've Gone Mobius

Go Compare's new advertising campaign seems to be an "ironic" acceptance of the fact most people despise their ads. Billboards have apparently been defaced around the country and there have been re-runs of old TV ads which pull out to show an irate looking viewer and a countdown to July 2nd. It's not difficult to picture the meeting where this non-viral viral idea was spawned: a group of "creative talent" sitting round a bright primary-coloured table in what looks like an overpriced playroom, brainstorming and going the extra mile to push their envelopes into the blue sky:

Talent 1: Everyone hates the ads, we've had Gio Compario versus The Big Bad Wolf, saving Cinderalla, back in the Stone Age… you name it, we've sent him there. What next?

Talent 2: The Fritzl basement?

T1: Hmmm, old old news and maybe a bit too far.

Talent 3: The Olympics? Maybe racing against the guy from the Virgin Media campaign?

T1: Richard Branson? Can't afford the image rights.

Silence around the table. Latte cups are played with, iPhones checked.

A throat is cleared.

Talent 4: Er, how about we acknowledge the fact everyone hates the adverts and play on that?

A silently damning chorus of unconvinced faces.

T1: What do you mean?

T4: Well, we go back to the original, we show it again and remind people where it all started. We show some of the other ones then maybe have a viewer trying to change channels. Eh… we could maybe deface some of the posters, have Gio Compario cut off mid song...

Heads nod slowly and shit-eating grins of agreement glow around the table.

T1: It's brilliant. It's ironic AND post-modern. I fucking love it.

It's only a matter of time before this ends up with some cretinous term. I'm going for "Mobius Marketing". Where Go Compare lead the rest will follow. Perhaps the overworked meerkat will turn feral, rip boss meerkat's head off and hold it aloft, screaming "WHO'S FUCKIN' SIMPLES NOW?". Injury lawyers will slip up on their own slimy self-righteousness and sue themselves into oblivion. A piece will appear in Marketing Wank Monthly praising the genius who came up with it in the first place and backs will be well and truly slapped. The most worrying thing for the rest of us is where they'll go next. If making ads purposely irritating worked, why stop there? Creative Talent, DO YOUR WORST.

Gig Bingo

Last Tuesday I went to see The National at The Corn Exchange. The last time I saw The National it cost me a trip to London and my only experience buying a ticket at way more than face value but this doesn't bother me - they are one of the few bands I love that much. Last week was the first time I've seen them in Scotland and despite being held in the morgue-like barn that is The Corn Exchange it was one of the best gigs I've ever been to. The memory of Matt Berninger climbing up the speaker stack, removing one of the ceiling panels and sticking his head through the gap (later described as "one of the stupidest things I've done") is one that will stay with me. The finale of the show which saw the band ditch all amplification, stand in formation at the front of the stage and sing in unison with the crowd while Berninger wandered through the audience elevated an already great gig into something truly spine-tingling and unforgettable. It was also the night I invented Gig Bingo.

Gig Bingo is a straightforward game that can be played at any gig, pretty much regardless of artist, genre or venue. All you need is a concert, a fellow attendee to play with (probably best if it's someone you know) and a chosen selection of gig cliches, those sights you can almost guarantee to see at least once during any given show. You can make up your own but here are some examples to get you started:

• Beanie hat regardless of the weather - a perennial that seems unrestricted by geography (New York, London, Tokyo, Edinburgh), music style (The National, Mogwai, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, Moby) or outside weather conditions. Double points if the wearer has eschewed straggly facial hair and triple if it's a woman.
• Bored other half who is only there in the hope of being physically rewarded for their attendance - an easy couple to spy as one will be standing enraptured while the other checks their watch in the manner of a bored commuter on a station platform
• First time gig-goer spangled on the pre-show cider and one pint of watery lager in the venue - self-explanatory

I'm sure you get the idea. If you want to include a really easy one to make sure everyone gets off the mark you might as well go with the "fucktrumpet who watches most of the show through the screen of their mobile phone." A truly contemporary blight on gigs and something that leaves me asking if there are really that many people in the audience of such a poor memory that they must record as much of the show on a shaky two and a half inch screen for posterity. God help them when they try and remember where they parked the car.

Back in the summer the BBC showed a number of classic performances from Glastonbury - Radiohead in 1997, Pulp in 1995 and so on. Amazing shows and not a phone in sight. I almost felt a pang of nostalgia for warnings on tickets forbidding cameras and pre-show searches that were designed to put off any budding bootleggers. It made me think of shows gone by, some I'd attended and more that I hadn't, and lead me to this five-a-day from phone free times.

Elvis Presley: Baby What Do You Want Me To Do

Despite my love of the pomp, the jumpsuits and the sideburns that defined 70s Vegas Elvis, the sections from The 68 Comeback Special with just him and his band are my favourite performances of his, and the above out take is the best of these. More than that, to me it's simply one of the greatest live performances of any song by any artist I've ever seen. It's three minutes of lewd and lascivious behaviour, framed with a filthy growl thirty seconds in and probably the best eyebrow movement in musical history just before the end (2:22). Pure, dripping aural sex. 

James: Stutter

Like many people of a certain age, Sit Down was the first I'd heard of James. That was in 1991 and I had no idea they'd been bubbling away for the best part of a decade, building up a fan base that meant they sold out the 12,500 capacity G-Mex in Manchester before they'd even had a hit of any significant size. The show was filmed properly, a video released and snapped up by a music hungry 14 year old GrumpyScot who watched it again and again. The pre-concert interviews on the video got me one of my best English grades as I used them as the basis for a creative writing exam (sorry, Miss Jones) and to this day I wish I'd been there. It's never been reissued on DVD so much gratitude to stutterPT for uploading each song from the video AND the interviews.

Rezerection

Not strictly one song or artist but included for two simple reasons: 1) it reminds me of my formative years and 2) would there have been that level of fantastically manic gurning, hand-dancing and lightstick-waving if half the crowd were filming the show on their mobiles? No chance.

Rolling Stones: Gimme Shelter

 
Riffing's equivalent of the Japanese original of The Grudge - terrifying and mood setting regardless of how many times you go back to it. Yes, the Stones still tour and their next gigantasaurus rox will no doubt be appearing at a megadome near here, but that's not the Stones I want to see. As soon as I master time travel I'll be doing two things - getting my fortune sorted through gambling on known results, and going to see the Stones in their prime.

Sex Pistols: Whatcha Gonna Do About It?

Immortalised in 24 Hour Party People, The Sex Pistols show at Manchester's Free Trade Hall in 1976 has gone down in history with some even calling it 'The Gig that Changed The World.' Thousands claim to have been there but in reality the number is closer to forty, including future Smiths, Fall, Joy Division and New Order members. Oh, and Mick Hucknall. Another one for the time machine - attend, be amazed, punch Hucknall in the throat and prevent a million dreadful fucks.

Save the Blogs, Recycle

I recently mentioned that I'd finally found the old Five-A-Day blog that I'd set up last year when I was a dole-dwelling man of leisure and I was planning to reuse some of the posts. Here's one on songs I like by bands I hate.

I wanted to write something today but couldn't be arsed. Through a semi-hungover haze I discussed topics for this post with the Tea Queen and realised that by writing this I could justify staying in bed for a while longer (it's the only place in my flat where I can ponce onto my neighbour's wifi).

There are many many bands I truly despise. Music is such an important part of my life that it upsets me when people are shite at it and make massive amounts of money from it. Muse? Wank. U2? Overblown arse biscuits. Coldplay? Aural magnolia emulsion. Anything from the bowels of Cowell? Explosive diarrhoea spattering the brain pan. 

The only thing worse than detesting a band with every fibre of your existence is when they go and write a decent song. You're in a friend's car listening to Radio 1 and Jo 'have you ever seen/heard Dido and I in the same room' Whiley announces that next up is a world exclusive: the first play anywhere in the known universe of Cold Patrol's new single. She builds it up as if they've somehow found a cure for cancer through banal guitar dribble and you start flexing your sneer muscles. There's a moment's pause before it begins and every atom in your body is filling with bile as you prepare to rant about the eternal awfulness of this band. But something is amiss. The opening chords don't make you want to kill fluffy animals slowly. Your foot has started tapping of its own accord and your head is borderline nodding along in time. The realisation hits you: this song isn't too bad. You feel dirty. You feel used. You want to go home, dip a cotton bud in Swarfega and scrub your ears raw. Today's five are in honour of this.

Snow Patrol: Chocolate



I prefer to post live versions of songs whenever possible but I just couldn't with this one. I found clips of this from T in the Park and Live 8 but Gary Lightbody's smugly twattish face and complete inability to sing live almost resulted in my laptop landing in the garden. Neither wonder he looks smug, he's somehow managed to take a gnat's penis of ability and turn it into a machine that just shits money. Snow Patrol are the musical equivalent of Rohypnol and the factChasing Cars was the number one song of the last decade says more about the state of Britain than any hysterical Daily Mail editorial ever could.

Starsailor: Good Souls



According to one of their other songs, Daddy was an alcoholic. With progeny like this, who can fucking blame him? However, unlike the Lightbody twat, James Walsh can at least deliver a live version of his only decent song without sounding like a cat being forced to shit pineapples.

Bryan Adams: Summer of 69



Bryan Adams is a bastard. I will never forgive him for ruining an entire summer holiday by staying at number one for several millenia. To this day I will never understand who kept buying it 14 weeks into its stint at the top of the charts. Until the Arcade Fire and Wolf Parade came along, Adams, Morrisette and the Barenaked Ladies were the reasons why I imposed an embargo on Canadian music. Having said all that, scientists have proved that it is physically impossible to dislike this song.

Coldplay: Yellow



Before he married the human equivalent of his band's epically dull music and decided to rail against climate change from the back of his 4x4, Chris Martin was a practicing satanist who sacrificed kittens on an altar made from the skulls of his human victims. Nah, not really, but you've got to hope there's something more interesting going on with him than his music would lead you to believe.

Moby: Feeling so Real



There was a time when Moby made music to get off your tits and jump around like an idiot to. Unfortunately, he then realised he could make more money by making music to sell cars to middle-aged, middle-management wife swappers from Tunbridge Wells. This is an example of the former.

Dickin' about the mud, yeah?

In the first Glastonbury post I mentioned a second Near-Glasto Experience that helped tip me from likely festival-goer to vitriolic blogger. In honour of one of my favourite films, I'm going to call this 'The Gemma Situation.'

The Gemma Situation

A couple of years ago I worked for a company in Canterbury. I'd not long started seeing a girl called Gemma when I was transferred to our Manchester office. Things between us were their early stages and I'd always wanted to visit Manchester, so when the chance came up to move there I generally saw it as a good thing (the fact I had no option BUT to move there is a whole different story and there is another blog out there that says plenty about the company that moved me). Of course I'd miss her, but it was early days and anyway, the two places weren't that far apart.

In May, about a month after I'd moved up to Manchester, I had to return to Canterbury to tie up a few loose ends with my flat so I made it a long weekend and stayed with Gemma. On the Monday I was due to head back up we were sitting outside a pub when she said she was off for the next few days (she'd told me she was a nurse and worked shifts) and it was a pity I couldn't stay longer. I jokingly suggested she come up to Manchester and stay with me. I'd be working but my flat was in the city centre and there was plenty to do during the day. Before I could utter a "just joking" and make it sound like I wasn't some kind of pigeon keeping male equivalent of the mad cat spinster, she'd agreed and we were on our way back to hers to fill a bag. At the time I thought it was a combination of cider, sunshine and her spontaneity (and maybe even something to do with the joy of my company) but I later found out she was, to use a medical term, as mad as a clown's cock.

One of the reasons we got on was a shared love of music especially live shows. We constantly talked about gigs we'd been to and bands we loved and loathed. As it was coming into summer the topic of festivals came up and we compared notes of ones we'd been to, legendary shows and dream line-ups. Given my limited repertoire of stories it was inevitable Near-Glasto Experience Mk I would come up and she dutifully looked on in horror when I got to the point in the story where I realised my battery had died. Sympathy duly gained I then asked her if she'd ever been. "Well, my uncle does A&R for one of the big labels so he usually gets me a ticket and I go along with him and some of his mates." I was impressed and another faux-jokey statement fell from my lips:

"Do you reckon he could get me one?"

"It's only a few weeks away but I can ask him. I'll phone him and see what he says."

Believing it was probably too late and with the phone story still fresh in my mind I didn't hold out much hope, but fuck it, maybe this instant legend of an uncle could pull some industry swings and I'd be snorting lines from the posh bogs with Pete Docherty before you could say "wannabe tortured artist fucktrumpet."

After work the next day I met Gemma in the pub. She greets me with the line "Buy me a pint and give me a kiss, I deserve it." I feign doubt, raise an eyebrow and ask "is that so? And why would I want to do that?" Pause. "W-e-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-l. Because I've got you a Glastonbury ticket?" For a fleeting second I understand how people in Vegas end up married to someone they only met twenty-five minutes ago and whose entire relationship is founded on a love of all-you-can-eat-buffet. "Seriously? You're fucking shitting me." No, it turns out the uncle has come good, my nightmarish Glasto experience of my youth is to be expunged and history will be rewritten in a way even Stalin would be proud of. All I need to do now is a) get the time off work, and b) get my arse to Cheltenham to meet Gemma and her uncle as this is where her family lives and this is where the pilgrimage will begin. She doesn't even want money as the whole thing is free anyway. Double bubble.

Getting time off work isn't going to be easy as it's short notice and there are already a couple of people off that weekend. Long story short, couple of bollockings, a borderline firing and the job's done. I book my train ticket to Cheltenham, download some festival apps to my phone and start planning who I want to see and who I want to avoid. 

I plan to head down to Cheltenham on the Thursday so we can leave first thing on Friday morning. This is what Gemma had done in previous years and it sounds like it's planned with military precision. I don't hear much from her from about the Tuesday or Wednesday but this isn't particularly strange as we're both crap at returning calls and texts. After a week of wishing the time away it's Thursday evening and I'm boarding a train in Piccadilly with a borrowed rucksack, a six-pack of Strongbow for the journey and the jealous best wishes of friends and colleagues. I get settled on the train and text Gemma to let her know what time I'm arriving. I assume she's going to be at the station to meet me and get tucked into my cider, reading yet another Glasto supplement in awe of the bands I'm going to see.

The train gets closer to Cheltenham and I've still heard nothing from her. Even now I'm not panicking - I'm not the only one of her friends heading down there so it should all be fine. I'll see her at the station and we'll laugh about my worry. "Yeah, didn't think you were going to show. Was shitting myself." We'll laugh and down another drink as we prepare the van for the real journey.

I arrive in Cheltenham and she isn't there. I’m a little more worried but still not panicking. The cider has chilled me and I'm getting in to a festival mode - time is meaningless and we will meet when we meet. An hour later as I'm grimly downing my third pint in some shithole hotel bar near the station my festival face is starting to slip and I'm pressing redial every few minutes. Nothing. The night drags on and I remember I have nowhere to stay. Explaining my predicament to the barmaid I ask if there are any rooms in the hotel. Even now I still make light of it and say I probably won't need it but I just want to be on the safe side. It's a moot point anyway - they are fully booked, mainly with people going to Glastonbury, however if I need to there is a Travelodge about fifteen minutes away. She doesn't say any more than this but she knows then that soon enough I will be knocking at the door of that Travelodge.

Last orders is called and I trudge to the Travelodge. For atmosphere it really should have been pissing rain but it's a beautiful summer night, the sky is clear and it's still fairly warm. I get to the hotel, get a room and ask if there is a bar. Apparently not but I'm told the service station next door sells booze. I buy Ginsters, Jameson Whiskey and assorted crisps. Oh, and a bottle of water because I think I might need it in the morning. This is one of the few things I correctly predict over the course of the entire weekend.

I lie on top of the bed, drinking Jameson straight from the bottle while the TV news hums away in the background. I'm not paying much attention to it as I'm using what's left of my focus to try and work my phone. Muttering curses under my breath I give up on the phone and turn to the TV. Michael Jackson has died. It must be serious news as it penetrates my fug and distracts me for a few minutes. I feel my phone vibrate and rummage frantically on the bed to find it. A text from Gemma? An explanation? An apology and a question asking where I am as she'll be there soon? No. My mother, thinking I'll be on my way to the festival: See Michael Jackson has died. Bet you'll never forget where you were the night that happened. Her motherly instincts are unbounded.

At some point I pass out. I sleep fitfully, glugging from the bottle when I do wake, swearing and going back to sleep again. I'm awake at first light, drink whisky until my 10 a.m checkout then decide to get the fuck out of Cheltenham. I still have a fair amount of whisky left and it's a straight choice between that and the water as to what goes in the rucksack. No contest really. I down as much of the water as I can without spewing and check out. I can smell breakfast as I leave but I'm not up to solids and I assure myself the cheese puffs in my bag will make a fine repast.

I swig from the bottle as I stagger back to the station. By the time I get there it's late morning and the platform is busy with people heading to Birmingham and Manchester. There are families on outings, mothers and daughters who look like they're off on shopping expeditions, and a very drunk, dishevelled Scotsman drinking whisky straight from the bottle. As I'm waiting on the train my stomach decides that an 18 hour diet of cider, beer, whisky and service station brand crisps is too much and I spew. On the platform. In front of the families on outings and the mothers and daughters off shopping. Mercifully the train arrives shortly after this and I gather my rucksack, along with what's left of my dignity and shuffle onto the train. Acidic throat and pounding headache aside, my all too public chunder does ensure that no one sits beside me. As the journey continues I eat crisps, getting as many on myself as in my mouth. The train reaches standing-room only point but I still I have two seats to myself. In a brief moment of confused logic I silently thank Gemma for this.

Somewhere between Birmingham and Manchester I decide the best way to deal with this whole farce is to stop drinking. This is probably around the same time as I run out of whisky. The booze trolley goes by but I wisely choose not to buy anything. I know drink isn't going to help me. No way. What I need is a big bag of cocaine.

I pull my phone from my pocket and mash the screen, scrolling through my contacts until I get to my colleague's flat-mate. All I know about her is her first name, the fact she is wheelchair bound, made up a story about her brother killing himself (he made a remarkable recovery) and she sells some fantastic coke at a very reasonable rate. I shamelessly text her, explain I'll be in Manchester in an hour and what I'm looking for. She gets back to me pretty quickly saying she's out of coke but has got some 'horse.' I assume she means ketamine but somewhere in the drunken mess of my mind I remember it can also be slang for heroin. I text back and check. I was right first time.

She lives near Piccadilly, as do I, so I stop off, watch a bit of Wimbledon and make small talk as she sorts out the ket for me. I offer her money but she tells me not to worry about it as it sounds like I've had a rough time. Things are looking up for me. I get back to my flat and chop out a few lines. I snort a couple and go lie on the sofa. I feel nothing for a while beyond the chemical scratch inside my nose and the acrid taste at the back of my throat. An advert for Alan Carr comes on and suddenly he is the scariest man I've ever seen. This might not necessarily be anything to do with the drugs though. I then notice the wall seems to be folding in on me. That's never happened before. I panic a little and think I might be dying but a sudden rush of euphoria leads me to shout, "If this is death it's FUCKING ACE!" and I piss myself laughing.

I lose track of things for an indeterminate period of time after that. Eventually I decide that I need to go to bed so I stand up from the sofa and remind myself where the bedroom is. It's at this point I realise I am on tracks so can only travel in straight lines or ninety degree angles. I walk from the sofa to the edge of the dining room table then turn sharply right before walking to the opposite wall and turning to my left. I probably cover about three times more ground than necessary before I reach the bedroom and promptly pass out on the floor.

A combination of the cold parquet flooring and an overwhelming need to puke wake me up. I throw up and crawl into bed. I feel like a character from a Murakami novel - existing in this universe but slightly out of phase with the natural order of it. It's not a hangover/comedown yet; it's the dregs of the booze and the chemicals farting their way out of my system. I sleep through most of Saturday and studiously avoid the BBC's wall-to-wall Glastonbury coverage. On Sunday I text a friend and ask if she wants to meet for lunch/drinks as I know it's her birthday. She's surprised as she thought I'd be at Glastonbury and tells me she's been looking out for me on telly. I don't go into detail; just tell her "there's a story." An hour or so later as I reach the part where I woke up on the floor I know this won't be the last time it's told.

Do You Remember The First Time(s)?

In the last post I hinted at a second Near-Glasto Experience to be revealed in this blog. It will come but recalling the details is proving to be more distressing than I'd previously imagined* (*translates roughly as "not tonight, can't be arsed"). While I compose my thoughts and gather myself here are a couple of blogs I started in the past which I hadn't seen for ages and found while rummaging around online.

The iPod Challenge

A fairly self-explanatory one where I set myself the challenge of listening to every track on my iPod in the alphabetical order of the album titles. I wrote this in 2007 when I was living in Japan, a time during which I spent a lot of time commuting and invariably had an iPod jammed into my ears. I got as far as 'F' which I suppose wasn't too bad given the amount of music that was on there. Stumbling across this last night lead me back to the wonderful Family is for Sharing by Brothers in Sound, an album I hadn't heard in many a year. If you haven't heard them think of a cross between Boards of Canada and The Beta Band and you're not far off. There isn't much on YouTube apart from the video below and a couple of others, but the whole album is available on Spotify.

Tokyo Music

The longest running and, if I can use such a word in relative terms, most successful blog I wrote. Again started when I lived in Tokyo, it was another self-explanatory one and was my attempt to both discover more Japanese music and hopefully share those discoveries with as many people as cared to read the blog. It was no Pitchfork but I met some amazing people, saw some great gigs and drank far too much godawful beer in some shitty little venues. One of the best bands I heard/saw while writing Tokyo Music was Akai Giwacku. I'm not even going to attempt to describe them as the video below can do so far more eloquently than I ever could.

I've also finally found the original Five-A-Day but I'm planning to recycle some of the posts from there so no links just yet.

Havin' a Festival, Are Ya?

The rain is bouncing off the ground outside as Edinburgh seemingly tries to sell itself as the ideal place to film a prequel/sequel to Se7en, Bladerunner or any other film where miserable weather is as important a character as the psychotic killer and the jaded detective with ambivalent morals. This can only mean two things: Summer Solstice has arrived with the only benefit of the longer daylight period being even more time in which to mull over the vagaries of the British summer; and, in turn, Glastonbury weekend is upon us.

Glastonbury somehow manages to be the both the mummy AND daddy of all festivals, the yardstick against which all the plucky newcomers and upstarts must measure themselves. It is three days of music, performance art, theatre, stand-up, hippies being at one with nature, middle-class kids spending their allowance on 'joints' that smell suspiciously like your mother's spice rack and Keith Allen doing whatever it is that Keith Allen does in order to keep himself in the ever fading limelight. It's an extravaganza. It's Sodom and Gomorrah spliced with The Summer of Love in a never-ending loop. It's dogs on strings and overpriced salmonella in a bap. It's something I've never been to.

I've been to a number of festivals but never made it to Glastonbury. As a self-proclaimed music lover this is probably like deciding the real Mecca was too much hassle and heading down a bingo hall instead. Believe me, though, it's not for the want of trying. Twice I have come close to the Holy Land and every year I am tempted to try again but my near-Glasto experiences come back to haunt me and I plump for watching it on the BBC with red wine and volleys of abuse every time Reggie Yates and Edith Bowman trot out their stilted attempts at 'banter.' What turned me into the bitter, Glasto-spicious man viciously typing these words? Read on...

Near Glasto Experience, Mk I

While at university I worked in a petrol station. As with most retail jobs it wasn't particularly challenging,  the main one being staying awake through an eight hour shift. There were two ways to do this. First of all I spent many an evening fucking with the heads of the stoner kids who came in:

Me (standing tall and scowling): You want ten fags AND a packet of Rizla? Why's that?
Kid (shuffling nervously): Er... well... in case the cigarette snaps.

Secondly, we listened to the radio constantly. During the day when there were a number of us on this meant Radio 1, or even worse, local radio. However, once I was on my own in the evening I could get something half decent on, usually The Evening Session. Once in the run up to Glastonbury they were giving away free tickets. These were no ordinary tickets, mind. These were the straggly-haired festival-goers' equivalent of a Wonka Gold number - VIP passes, paid accommodation, spending money and Michael Eavis booking the bands of your choice. I might have made some of that up but you get the gist. The question came up, I knew the answer, I called in. For the first and only time in my life I got through, answered the question correctly and was asked to hold until the song then playing had finished. I'd then appear live on the show to answer the question and act all excitedly when I was told I'd won, even though I already knew this.

The line goes quiet, I assume I'm on hold and think nothing of it. I start to realise a few minutes have passed and the line is still very quiet. I utter a tentative "hello." Nothing. I stretch out the word a little more, desperation sneaking into my voice, "h-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-o-o-o-o?" Still nothing. I pull the phone from ear with the same dread of a slasher movie heroine opening the door of an apparently abandoned cottage. The screen stares blankly back at me, a tiny orange abyss into which my Glastonbury tickets have disappeared. I can't even swear. I rush frantically to my bag and find my charger. I practically leap at the socket on the wall, a flurry of hands and fingers as I connect the phone to power and wait for it to start up. I type in my PIN number, only getting it right on the third attempt and mash the redial button. It rings. It keeps ringing. I tap my feet and mutter under my breath, "come on, please, come on." Finally someone answers. It sounds like the same person I'd spoken to previously so I explain the situation. She sounds genuinely sympathetic but says they had no choice to go to the next caller who'd answered correctly as I was gone when they came back  to me. I ask if there's anything else they can do - will they be running the competition again? Is there a second prize? Hell, can they even just give me tickets? I don't give a shit about the fancy VIP pass. Sure it would've been nice but I just want to go to Glastonbury even if it means shitting and showering with the masses. She listens but it's like pleading with a bouncer who's already decided you're not getting in. They take my address and say they'll send me some CDS and other bits and bobs. A couple of weeks later I receive a bulging parcel. My excitement soon fades as I realise they've basically sent me all the promo stuff that no-one at the station wanted - a mixture of generic mid-90s techno and albums that were only ever going to be sold in filling stations. To this day I have rarely gone anywhere without a mobile phone charger.

I was going to include the second Near-Glasto Experience in this post but I have been rambling on quite enough. Instead I will save that for a rainy day (expect it tomorrow). In the meantime, here are five performances I wish I'd been at Glastonbury to witness:

Neil Diamond: Crunchy Granola Suite

Orbital: Chime

Elbow: Grounds for Divorce

The Flaming Lips: Do You Realize??

Pixies: Monkey's Gone to Heaven

Spotify playlist of all the songs on the blog (well, all of them that are on Spotify) here.

Lost Weekends (Part 1)

Fractured images flashing past as another weekend goes from a few pints with friends to a sofa you don't know and warm white wine for breakfast. Waking up at lunchtime after an unsuccessful attempt to find one of the fabled early opening pubs. Unsatisfying breakfast at a fast food restaurant, plastic eggs and bacon, before a taxi back to another sofa. Fitful sleep with contact lenses still in. Waking up again at what feels like lunchtime but you couldn't be sure. Not hungry at all but warm white wine looks appetising and you chase it down with a fag while rifling through CDs and music videos on YouTube.

The pub across the road has a beer garden and is now open. Despite it being March, these facts and some watery sunshine is all the justification you need. You bumble across the street, sun shining but three day old lenses fogging the world and taking the sharp edges away. Couple of pints then home, couple of pints to sort yourself out then home  to finally sleep in your own bed.

First pint hurts, goes down in chunks but you don't question this, you'll get through it like you always do. Second pint, "make it tops please, mate," the dash of lemonade makes all the difference and you lunch on crisps. Move out to the beer garden with crisps and beer to have a calming cigarette. Shaky hands make lighting up difficult and you blame the non-existent wind.

Friends of a friend turn up, hanging too. Stories of the previous night's excess are compared - who fucked who and who spewed where and when. You don't know any of these people but it soon becomes clear that there are no taboos and any attempted joke is OK. Either that or people are just too fucked to even bother commenting. Another pint seems a good idea, as does food. You eat the meat and the carbs, leaving anything green.

It starts to cool so you move inside for one last pint. Three hours later your group are holding court in the corner and in-jokes have been created as the afternoon has passed. These people you met only a few hours ago are now the dearest friends you have even though you know you'll probably never see them again.