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There was a moment earlier today that I kicked myself for not attending Glastonbury.
A quick look at the webcam and it looked, well, dry. And there are few better places in the world than a dry Glastonbury.
But then I just checked again and this is what the place looks like now and all of a sudden I’m glad I’ll be tuning into to it on the sofa later.
However this does give me the chance to tell a Glastonbury story.
On my old old blog I once wrote this about the greatest performance I had ever seen - from a mystery performer in a tiny Glastonbury tent. To tell the truth my memory is not that good. I viewed the whole through a haze. It had been one of the days. But it was, kinda cosmic. Man.
“His voice, when he started singing, was howling. Deeply mournful at first and the small crowd caught each other’s eyes and nodded and smiled in appreciation..”
“I had never heard the song before. I can’t even remember how it went. All I can recall is that it soon started to pick up pace and it moved from melancholic to joyful as it progressed through the verses.
“Our heads nodded more vigorously and our smiles grew wider as the song quickened. And, as it did so, it wasn’t long before the strumming of his guitar became a blur.
“By this time his howling voice was louder and clearer. He was holding notes for what seemed like forever. His eyes lighting up, watching us as we watched him in amazement.
Soon his right hand had become impossibly fast. You could no longer focus on it. The song was of the dueling banjos genre. He knew he could play faster and hold a note longer than anyone and he was enjoying watching our amazement
It was only earlier this year, while watching a DVD, that I found myself vaguely recognising the lead actor. When he sang it became clear. This was the guy.
I am fairly sure that this is my mystery singer.
I’ve just found out something quite worrying.
You see I’d been waiting for the summer to warm up. Truth is I’ve recently resorted to switching on the central heating in the evenings.
Last year I got back into the UK last year after three summers away. Because summer was well underway by the time I arrived and because everyone was moaning about the weather I never really noticed the temperature.
But now, having gone through the winter, I’ve been waiting for warmth. So far the temperature has rallied around the mid to late teens centigrade. But we should be knocking on well into the twenties right? It will get warmer soon. Won’t it?
Finally, I gave up expecting heat and actually Googled to find what the average temperature should be.
Turns out this is entirely normal. Worse still, in August, potentially the hottest month, we’re still not going to get anything much higher than 20 degrees. Whaaaat?
Before going away I can recall sweating in the office in the summer. I can remember swimming in the North Sea. I can recall camping using only a cheap Tescos sleeping bag inside a cheap Tesco’s tent.
In this heat? Incredible.
In Hanoi it regularly reached 40 degrees in the summer but because I hid in air conditioning I am not sure I ever really aclimatised.
I think It was Nicaragua that ruined me. In much the same temperature I had only fans to keep me from meltdown. Maan it was hot.
But I got used to cold showers and sweating and grabbing my hat whenever I went out. I got used to sleeping on top of the bed rather than under sheets. I even got used to ice in beer.
Now I feel like as a result of that spell in Central Amercia my thermostat has been permanently hotwired. Maybe I’ll never be warm in the UK again.
This current temperature still feels like early Spring at best.
However disillusioned we get with Gordon Brown and the Labour Party (and there’s no way I’ll vote for them again - though I Blame that on Blair, not Brown), we should never forget just how horrible and slimey Tories are.
The whole fascination for charvas/chavs, it wasn’t always like this, was it?
Didn’t we used to be more politically correct than this?
Because, when we say “charva” do we really just mean poor people? When did we get so snobbish?
Is this the effect of nearly three decades of Thachterism? Is the gap now so wide that “we” have nothing in common with “them”.
Swtich on the TV and comedians do chav impressions. People even justify overcharging at events because it keeps the “Chavs away”. When did it become okay to ridicule and exclude them?
Sometimes it feels that whatever class system we have left is now reduced to simply the haves and the have nots. And maybe we don’t like being around the have nots because it reminds us of this.
Have we failed them?
I’m not entirely sure why but the whole thing makes me feel a little ashamed.
In the bad old days of only a few months ago, I used to have to queue 15 minutes every time I visited Abbey National. It drove me nuts.
Now some genius has installed a new system. The Cheese Counter System. We take a ticket and we wait to be called.
In the meantime a screen keeps us up to date with our estimated waiting time.
The result?
They’ve actually managed to increase waiting time. The pic above shows 18 minutes and counting. It was up to over 20 by the time they served me.
Unfortunately for the poor bastards behind me, by the time I left it was up to 23. The reason being that it takse a while to empty and close your account.
Because there’s no way I’m using up 20 minutes of another lunch hour to deal with them ever again.
* NB Went straight into Nat West and payed my savings in there instead. Waiting time: zero minutes.
I hate graffiti.
Whether it’s some scumbag “tagging” anything that doesn’t move or some baseball capped hipster trying to make the Toon’s Metro looks like a New York subway.
I don’t care if they have talent. Even “good” graffiti is still horrible America-derived wannabe awfulness. The kind of thing that “wacky” people working in youth marketing think is cool
I don’t care if it fecking Banksy. What, it’s okay if it’s clever and middle class folks like it? Who draws that line?
So I really hate this.
Most of all I hate that fact that in this instance my usual instincts to rally against the hang ‘em and flog ‘em brigade deserts me. F*ck the little f*ckers.
I don’t believe this stuff is a cry for attention or a display from a frustrated artist looking for a break. I don’t believe it is any kind of protest at all.
Unfortunately, It’s just another moron.
* Kudos to new boys/girls Newcastlecentric who broke the story. Expect the local papers to catch up soon.
…I’ve almost figured it all out.
Be with you soon.
Some of us complain about regional stereotypes. Others just reaffirm them.
Pizza, chips, kebab, pasty - YOU DECIDE!
You’ve been to the match, you’ve had a couple of beers and you’re on your way home…
But what do you stuff your face with before you stagger through the door and get told off by the missus?
That’s the subject of our web poll today, inspired by news that Greggs plans to open a late-night bakery in Sunderland.
Use the panel on the bottom right of this page to have your say now.
…but I’m in a foul mood and if I wrote anything it’d only be negative.
I’m tired of being negative.
It looks like it’s time for a rethink.
In the meantime, here’s a relaxing pic of a tree from a (just about) dry day last summer.
