GLASTONBURY 2000 - Friday

Quote of the Day: Stewart Lee, ‘If you had a leaking bag filled with proportionate quantities of bile, blood, excrement and urine - that had a jam smeared face - you wouldn’t dress it up in a crochet bobble hat and try to teach it simple words...’

Well folks have been jumping the fence all night, I was cold despite my wearing everything I had with me, and the three blokes sharing the one tent to my right just kept talking. After something like a four hour pause to sleep, they were up and at it again. I had no choice but to lie awake in the disconcertingly early hours, picturing what they looked like (and my accompanying tortures for them). The one who I decided to be fat, balding and ponytail-equipped, who kept on making jokes only because his slightly dozy friends insisted on laughing at them, said one thing ( over the portion of the 12hrs I’d set aside for sleeping ) which I found to have any sort of entertainment value. Contemplating the mud he’s currently scraping off his trousers ( something of a pointless action, really, considering the state of the ground this morning ), there came the suggestion that it be saved to sell off as a festival souvenir; ‘Relive Glastonbury – Just Add Hot Water. Have a Mud-Bath in the Comfort of Your Own Home’. This tickles, although I wish I hadn’t been listening to it at 08:35. ( And the same goes for the group of fence-jumpers, mightily pleased with themselves, who noisily settled around the back of my tent at seven in the morning to celebrate with some amyl nitrate. Well, good. )

It’s not raining this morning. But it looks like it could do. And when you walk anywhere that others seem to’ve, the ground is gloopy. Again. Before the morning escapes us, Chi and I go for another little orientation-walk, as everyone else scoots off for a hot breakfast; the mud soon starts to depress. Leaving the corrugated path ( itself sticky-coated and slippery ) for the sake of a stall-investigation involves a cautious slide and steady plod. Already, my boots are covered, and the welly-vendors are lit up with glee. Again. The predictable feeling of annual déja-vu is intense; the site layout is much the same as always, and we’re pitched in the same field as always, under conditions that are worryingly becoming ‘traditional’. I feel as though I’ve never left, that we’ve roped in a different cast to play the same never-closing production. In the early afternoon, it becomes a 99-revival, as Cabaret-bound I find a cuddly Charlie and the sun comes out – the moisture in the sodden ground is sucked up by the gracious sunshine and we all dry out. And thereafter, the weather is reasonable, holding out on pissing it down and even proving hot enough for a skirt (!) on Sunday. But that is the future. And the Cabaret Tent is my first present. The forthcoming entertainment prospects leave me gleeful, though I’m sure the feeling is not universal among the performers; as I’ve mentioned before, festival gigs are not ideal for comedians. People haven’t paid to get in or to see them specifically, not all are in their ‘right mind’, and some are just there because they can have a sit down. Not everyone makes the deliberate effort ( that I do, hurrah for me ) to see someone they know they like. But to just do tried ‘n’ tested material in such an environ is kinda lazy; laurel resting is never what I’m after. Particularly if I know the comedian in question to be exceedingly good at his job…

( P.S. Stu – I’m gonna pick on the League for the same crime in a few pages time… )

Which is why, just before half-past one, Charlie and I were to be found huddled to the side of the Jazz Stage, making our preparations. For in addition to the material which he does onstage, our forthcoming attraction also has the added bonus of proving something of a running joke ( more by dint of his subject matter than owt else, mind ). Last year, STEWART LEE did exactly the same set as he had in ’98, specifically, he claimed, to annoy me. This year, Charlie has a water-pistol. The two of us, meanwhile, are also armed with a notebook wager –

We bet Stu a pint he’ll say:

‘And then the police got involved’

‘A giant life-sized inflatable model of ET’

‘Then just look at your own face in a complicated system of mirrors’

and, in fateful payback for such smuggery, didn’t win out on any count. Which is not to say that the set did not feature material previously heard ( Laika / monkeys / jam / NSPCC ) , but it was fresher and re-ordered, and all the better for it. And it wasn’t just the two of us happily finger-wagging at the front who cared – the new line in the Jesus sketch merited a tent-expansive cheer, and the slabs of new material ( apparently, his penis is like a thermometer ) bestowed upon us in the encore were met with delighted grins and mild hysterics. ( Oh my gladdened heart. ) Stu is very good at his job, and here got the chance to shine with it. And now I’m longing for The Gap ( or some such like ) to do a range of kids’ t-shirts emblazoned across the chest with the slogan ‘JAM SMEARED PARASITE’ ( and then perhaps across the back, ‘THAT SUCKS THE ENERGY FROM ITS HOSTS’ ).

Leaving the tent, inordinately tiddly at two in the afternoon, I briefly stalk a woman with a Bagpuss bag, but not before we find ourselves accosted by a bounding Ian ( somehow he just knew I’d be in the Stu-Tent ), with whom we perambulate around the site, parting at the Message Tent. And then onwards, up the hill, for a round-up of Charlie’s friends – they got into the site at four in morning ( having been in the car up from London for eleven hours: Hu complaining as they go that ‘all modes of transport make me sick’, to which Charlie queries ‘What, even legs?’ ), and so some have been taking the opportunity afforded by a mostly bobbins early-afternoon line-up to nap. ( V. cunning. ) I make use of the communal pile-up of crisps outside their tents, as folks emerge. Leaving, there’s a small shriek from Jesse when I turn around. From the front, I’m just pink. From the back, I’m With-Mogwai. And so we meander down to the Dance Tent with them, realising as I approach that if I do go in, I’ll never get out in time for my bluetonic date on the Mainstage. So I beetle off, all ready to shimmy about in the lazy afternoon sunshine with a band who’ve been my pets for all of five years now. And even in suits they’re still so cute – all grown up after that tequila-powered Mexican phase, THE BLUETONES are now ready to cut some rug in natty pinstripes. Bless ‘em. And so we Morriss-dance our way through the back-catalogue – the shiny singles come out to play, and a couple of juicy album numbers, and fairly swiftly everyone around me is smiling. Their songs are just like extended hugs, and when Mark turns the final na-na-na’s of ‘…If’ into the chorus of ‘Love-Train’, he fairly effectively embeds the song into the subconscious of several thousand. All evening, after that, pockets of people found themselves humming the same chords. I still love this band…

And from that, ignoring the prospect of JJ72 for the sake of the messy conglomerate bounce of THE BLOODHOUND GANG. Who are, like, really REALLY naughty. And who made me feel, like, really REALLY naughty, just for being there, watching, singing along, and finding them funny. The dirty dirty boys… ( Ah, what was I expecting? The new album’s called ‘Hooray For Boobies’… ) One part of me would like to credit them, for their self-knowing white-trashiness, the opportunist voyeurism, skilful taboo-transgression and readdressing of both cultural stereotypes and gender values; and the other part of me just thinks they’re perverts who were bullied at school. For example. They got a giggle of girls up on stage to dance ( and fondle nipples ), and then watched admiringly as they did as challenged and kissed each other at the promise of free t-shirts, after which two guys were encouraged to strip down to their pants onstage, for cash, and when they refused to take off any more clothing, were given leaping wedgies as they tried to escape the stage. All of which hypnotised the crowd to the stage, no question, but was still a leetle seedy. Even without the songs, though, this band do make for damn fine entertainment. Whether shirtless-preening, fire-breathing, refusing to freebase crack with an onstage Pacman, sending a cymbal stand crowd-surfing or trying to get Joe Absolem to drink 24 cans of warm Dr. Pepper while they do their set, they never bore or allow attention to wander. Those folks only present in the crowd for the sake of the recent ‘Bad Touch’ single ( cue synchronised dancing in synchronised costume… N Sync are so proud… ) will have been pleasantly overwhelmed, one feels. ( Oh, and the tunes were damn good too… )

And after that, it was back to the tent for a bit of a sit-down – there’s only so much being-kicked-in-the-head-by-surfers one bonce can really absorb - before schlepping off to the New Tent ( essentially along the corridor and up the stairs, in large hilly field terms ), for the slow-burn start to the evening. DAY ONE. They write shy stories instead of songs – lazy journalism would dub them Bristol’s answer to Arab Strap ( though I don’t know the wording of the question ) – and every word seems drenched in wry sensitivity. After the gleeful vituperative language-riot I was just witness to on the Other Stage, Day One made for a most welcome come-down. Theirs is a wholly different kind of playful intelligence…

Half an hour of barrier-backed floor-residence later, surrounded by knees with the mogwai for company, there ambles onstage Frigid Vinegar, who toniteforoneniteonly are the backing band for the twinkling ( and peculiarly-hatted ) BADLY DRAWN BOY… himself the first in a new breed of shy-womble pop-starrs, one hopes. Damon’s very very nervous, bless him ( and his stripy hat ), and it shows, though only in his between-song ramblings. We meander our way through the new album ( proudly plugged at every opportunity ), and a couple of older tracks, even finding the time to show what would happen if Wyclef were to ever collaborate with Arab Strap ( hee-hee ) and everyone leaves happy. Myself, proudly declaring tea-cosy ( headed ) rock to be the future…

And so saying a resounding Sod It to further New Tent loitering ( I like Elliot Smith but now I’m restless to move ), I go back to the Other Stage. For MOBY. Because I love ‘Play’. Like, as I swiftly discover, do several thousand others. Even getting close to the mixing desk proves impossible, so I content myself with moving down the side of the ever-swelling crowd, and watching the light-show from the far left. From that distance, he seemed good. I danced, for a bit. And then sat down by the fences for a bit - on a breeze-block, mind, none of that ‘wet grass’ malarkey for me. Decided to move when men started to wee with blank disregard RIGHT next to me. (Mmm.)

And from that, back up the hill to the New Tent once more, for the last band of my evening, the effortlessly glorious BLACK BOX RECORDER. Of which all I can remember is The Voice ( ice-cream soda beautiful ), and The Clothing ( never have crash-test dummies seemed so sexy… did I say that out loud? ). Truly sssssssssensational…

>>> SATURDAY

Last revised: 09/07/03