Wednesday 9 July 2008

Sunday 29th of June

In which John pulls a Jack Bauer (by which he means he almost stays up for 24 hours).

My original plan for the Sunday morning was to go and distribute some more books, only the weather had other ideas. That and on approaching Pedestrian Gate C to get back to the car the queue to get back out of the festival was immense. Were these all the townies who'd had enough post-Jay Z?

Deciding my time would be better spent elsewhere I went and interviewed Wooden Books in the Green Futures Field. It's a strange place the GFF, not content to be the domain of bongo-playing hippies small activist tents are present. The CND sits uncomfortably alongside the Ramblers Association as if to say if you like coastal path walking you should also be anti-Trident. Most forlorn looking is the Anti-Coca Cola tent, which has a few t-shirts with slogans attacking Coke milling about in the breeze. It fails to make me feel guilty about the can I had for breakfast.

I stole away to the Jazz Field. The site didn't seem busier, on Sunday, Glastonbury opens its doors to local residents with complimentary tickets. The litter was now sweeping across the site that four days ago had seemed so empty and green. A dwelled in the field with friends, summoning up the strength to visit a poetry slam. As you may imagine it was a Herculean effort.

The afternoon drew on and I found myself outside the Pyramid watching BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE about whom I remember relatively little, though they were more competent than their smacked-up appearance in this documentary had lead me to believe.

NEIL DIAMOND



was better and I saw him do 'Red Red Wine', a fine performance. Only at that point I thought I'd lost my wallet and that sent me scurrying back to my tent as soon as I possibly could. I hadn't, but I was running low on funds.

I decided to brave the cash machines on the corner of Pennard Hill. As I queued the unmistakably smug and evil voice of MARK RONSON drifted over to me. Now here was a man who knew how to get the party started. Inviting a pink-haired LILY ALLEN on-stage to do her cover of the Kaiser Chiefs 'Oh My God' Lily wowed the crowd by relating the sad news that her Grandma 'Nanny Allen' was dead. I imagined Keith and Uncle Kevin chewing gum and drinking lager while stood over a coffin, itching to get back to the festival.

Grabbing some dinner while THE PIGEON DETECTIVES bored thousands through their set, I considered the fact that this was all pretty much over for me. Two acts and one night to go. I'd arranged evac from the site from my good friends Matt and Angela. This would take place at approximately 5am following meeting at 4...

THE ZUTONS

I'd be lying if I claimed to be there for the Zutons music, though I enjoyed most of the gig. I was probably more there for Abi Harding's legs. 'Valerie' got its third play of the Festival in it's more laid-back form, which would probably have better suited the crowds a few hours back from this evening performance. Overall though, I find them a band that it's impossible to dislike and who deserve bigger fame than they've currently got.

GROOVE ARMADA



I find it hard to believe that up to this point in my life and being a fan over ten years, this was the first time I'd actually seen the premier league dance act play live. They did pretty much everything on this greatest hits performance. 'Madder', 'Song 4 Mutya', 'At the River', 'I See You Baby' were all present, though the highlight was an ultra-pounding version of 'Chicago' from the first album 'Vertigo'. As usual, being the last act, they were allowed to use the lasers and the light show was pretty impressive. They finished on 'Super Stylin' was which was mega. As I rapidly ran out of superlatives it was back to the Brothers Bar to finish the night there.

MONDAY MORNING

At about 4am I was making my way up to the Dance Field to meet Matt and commence the long trek home. Managing to overbalance with my rucksack, tent and sleeping bag on my back, I decked myself into the grass, breaking the arm off my glasses and giving myself a scar on my face and bruise on my leg that I still have. I hurt.

Dawn broke as we trekked back to Pedestrian Gate C and the vast Disneyworld-like car parks. We were on the road by a quarter to five, the sun emerging brilliantly over the Somerset Levels.

A swift trip to Bristol saw me getting on a train to Paddington by 6am and passing out. When I woke up, I discovered we were on our way to Swansea.

Panic set it, while realisation crept up on me. I got the right train, only I'd slept to Paddington, slept through the changeover and was now on my way in the opposite direction. Scrambling for my stuff I jumped out at a commuter riddled Reading to get on a train going back into London. Everything had that special extra-sharp quality that only sleep-deprivation provides. People stared. They knew where I'd been, though what I was doing on a Reading platform wasn't that clear.

I made sure I stayed awake all the way back to London.

Monday 7 July 2008

Saturday 28th of June

The sun was shining when I awoke, slowly baking inside my tent. I checked the time and realised I wasn't late.

I scurried down to the Pyramid Stage, had a truly pathetic taco for breakfast (I was beyond trying to observe regular rules for meals by now) but was in the perfect position to see a living legend take to the stage.

SHAKIN' STEVENS

Shakey's still got it! Tapping into some of my earliest memories of bouncing on my parents bed to 'This Old House' Shakey delivered a rock and roll spectacular that proved he could still sing. If there was some disappointment it was the refusal by the Welsh star to perform 'Green Door' which must have really annoyed the guys who carted an actual Green Door down to the Pyramid Stage (it was dual purpose, having a message for JAY-Z on the other side). Overall though a great way to kick off the Saturday.

It was then time to leave the festival, albeit briefly. I went and met Mark and the 5th Estate Estate and picked up a load of books for distribution on site. The east car parks at Glastonbury are vast, extending as far as Oxfordshire. After a good 35 minutes of wondering I finally found Mark and loaded up with copies of the 5th Estate Sampler. There was an eerie quiet in the car parks. The festival seemed distant. This must be what it's like for residents of Pilton I thought...

I wondered back into the site and distributed some books. The take-up was actually faster than the Hay Festival which was encouraging. People who like cider, like books, was my conclusion. Dumping my big rucksack back at the tent, I went in search of the Socialist Bookshop, more on whom later and then all the way round to the Other Stage for

NEON NEON



Who for me were the biggest and best surprise at this festival. A side project of the SUPER FURRY ANIMALS' Gruff Rhys and Bryan Hollon AKA BOOM BIP Neon Neon was a glorious return to 80s electro, forged via a concept album about John De Lorean, automobile entrepreneur. While this is precisely the sort of tenuous bollocks that would have me running for the hills the whole thing actually works, brilliantly so. Evoking Depeche Mode and even New Order at times, Gruff duetted with Cate Le Bon on the great 'I Lust U' and then upped the ante with bringing out club favourite HAR MAR SUPERSTAR belting out the brilliantly seedy 'Sweat Shop'. I like Gruff in his Super Furries guise, but this was so odd, interesting and downright fun I hope NEON NEON stick around for a while.

CASSETTEBOY AND DJ RUBBISH

Cassetteboy is actually two grown men in silly masks who perform mime to a selection of genius cutups. 'Harry Potter and the Underage Blow Job' is a particular highlight. DJ Rubbish is not a DJ at all, but an MC with a DJ in a Mexican wrestlers mask. This is exactly the sort of thing that would liven up the Jonathan Ross chat show occasionally.

DUFFY
Was my album of the year until I heard Neon Neon. Duffy took the stage looking like the sort of pop pixie that could out-Kylie Kylie. And she almost bloody did too. Her voice is something else, motown/soul quality from one so little. While most of the crowd were there for her top hit 'Mercy' her versions of 'Distant Dreamer' and 'Rockferry' (my personal fave) were more incredible, she's top-notch and look forward to seeing if (hopefully) she tries her hand at some Goldfrapp style reinvention...

And now a note about flags. Regular readers of my Glastonbury blogs will know how much I detest these standards waving about in front of the stage, you may as well write 'I'M A MASSIVE COCK!' on each one for all I care. During Duffy, I found myself stood next to a man carrying one of the flags. So I asked him about it.

"It's for identification mainly, so other members of our party, there's four of us, can see where we are."

Four of you! There's about 15 of us, but we don't feel the need for a flag... Or in this case a retractable pole with a pathetic windsock on the end of it... Think people, think before you give into the flag madness!

I had a nap now, the first time in four days I'd needed a siesta, I was holding up better than last year.

THE LAST SHADOW PUPPETS


Surprise band on the Park Stage who weren't Tenacious D (how do these rumours start?). I didn't stick around.

My phone, despite changing batteries was running seriously low on power. I decided for the first time ever to drop into the Orange Chill and Charge Tent. This was a seriously bizarre experience, in the middle tent the size of a barn, a DJ plays techno while people sit around tables waiting for their phones to charge, for the most part not making conversation, but staring into space, only stopping to check their phones. While I was grateful for the rest I was struck by the strangeness of the activity. Phone charging is not something that should be attempted socially. Not to mention that for ages Orange have been flogging the Nokia 6300 (my phone) and yet only had about six points to actually charge it at. I wonder how much the electricity costs over the weekend?

AMY WINEHOUSE

I saw the last three songs. She was wasted, falling over herself, talking gibberish and yes, punching the crowd. She can sing though, she just needs to lay off the booze and drugs before she does. They're for afterwards, Amy, afterwards!!

JAY-Z
The main event. Everything about the weekend seemed to be hanging on this performance. Arguably one of the biggest names in the world, the first hip hop act to headline Glastonbury had to be something extraordinary. And it was. Beginning with a video clip of Noel Gallagher laying into him, other clips followed, watch the whole thing below.





The show that followed was all about one man and his mission, Jay-Z strode out to Wonderwall, his two fingered salute to Noel and then pounded the stage with '99 Problems', awesome isn't the word. Covers of 'Smack my Bitch Up' and 'Rehab' followed with huge hits like 'Girls, Girls, Girls' and 'Big Pimpin' kept the crowd moving. If we have one complaint it's that Jay-Z didn't use the other weapons in his arsenal. We'd been promised special guests like Beyonce, Chris Martin and Rihanna - none showed up. The man had decided that he needed to do this alone and he did so spectacularly. Good entertainment is good entertainment full stop, no matter what your music background is. 'Hardcore, do you want more?' Yes, yes please!

VEXKIDDY

Time for some late night raving at the Glade with theatrical dance act Vexkiddy. For those that don't know Cuthbert and Strangeways, they're a Bristol based outfit who dress their manic hardcore rave up as a Victorian Time Experiment (that's the experiment going wrong again on the left). However their shows appear to have been increasingly more shambolic. This time around as they were playing the 1am slot which is a Silent Disco. Unlike the Silent Discos up at the Park you had to pay £10 for hiring your headphones. This confused late arrivals. Secondly a lot of people didn't understand Vexkiddy's way of playing out scenes between the music. So people started booing when the music stopped and the two guys started chatting. It ended with microphones everywhere, a decimated stage and some disgruntled looking roadies.

On the way back up to the tent I got stuck behind some guys with a huge flag. On the flag it read 'TEXT ME ON 077998...'

I was so glad I'd charged my phone. I texted away, but didn't get a reply, which I assume means he took my message of 'YOU'RE A MASSIVE COCK' the way it was intended.

Friday 4 July 2008

Friday 27th June

The rain stopped about 3am. I woke at 4am to an eerie quiet. The thudding of boots on the metal path a few metres away had quietened. It was like people were waiting.

After getting my head down for a few more hours I took a look at my trainers. They were splattered. Reluctantly, I reached into my rucksack and pulled out the green Dunlop wellies that had saved my arse for the previous two Glastonburys.

Grabbing some breakfast, I trundled down to the Other Stage where the sound-checking was taking place. The grass was still green. Spreading a copy of the Q Glastonbury Daily on the ground I sat looking at the sky trying to judge which direction the clouds were going.

I always try and make the first band on the Other Stage, it's tradition. We'd been promised the HILLTOP HOODS an Australian Hip Hop act, but they'd failed to show so instead we got...

IDA MARIA

Scandinavian indie rock with quite a powerful punch, Ida Maria kicked off the Other Stage in a great fashion. There was only one quite disconcerting point and that was the fact the band was fronted by Whose Line Is It Anyway improv queen Josie Lawrence.




IDA MARIA, INDIE BAND









JOSIE LAWRENCE, IMPROV QUEEN





While tunes like 'I Like You Better When You're Naked' were joyfully bounced out, our personal favourite was 'Stella' which we assume was about the nation's favourite fighting beer.

GET CAPE, WEAR CAPE, FLY

Great name! Mediocre band! A project from the doesn't-he-look-like-you-could-take-him-home-to-meet-your-mum-moppet Sam Duckworth (son of Vera), GCWCF's mix of smooth indie and pop ballad was so middle of the road, you could be forgiven for thinking it was a traffic island. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad, it wasn't passionate either, it was just a bit meh. Maybe Sam needs to take more drugs or go to South America or something, but overall this washed over me like the drizzle that continued to fall from the sky.






Horsing about in a drizzly corner of the Pyramid Field.









KT TUNSTALL

I don't think we expected to KT Tunstall to be so damn funny. Sexy, yes, ballsy, certainly, but she was just really amusing. She happily spent her time telling us stories about her friends with mental illnesses ("If you're a nutjob this one's for you!") and persuading the crowd to participate in some hip-hop stylee dance moves ("You may think you're cool for not doing it, but you're just a dick"). To be honest we were only there for the final track, 'Suddenly I See', which KT doesn't seem to have tired of yet and pulled off with aplomb. Great stuff.

Around this time, I managed for the second time in my life to appear on the BBC regional news show Points West (the first was circa 1993 when I was interviewed about the school opting out of Key Stage 3 exams). Clinton Rogers was reporting from the bottom left corner of the Pyramid Field, where a group of people had started a conga behind him. As I was wearing my Fifth Estate t-shirt I tried to get in shot and generate some publicity. Two minutes later my phone rang. "John, it's Dad, we've just seen you on TV!" RESULT!

After an interview with the 1623 Theatre Company, I headed over to the Park feeling that the Silent Disco would be just the thing to cure my rainy day blues.

DJ OD was still there! Had he stopped partying from the previous night? I chose to believe not, I figured the DJ booth must come complete with an intravenous supply of coffee and liquid festival burgers. Finding myself alone again, I decided a quick rave was needed. I was then recovered by my mates who stuck me in the Glade just in time to hear Primal Scream's 'Come Together' probably my favourite festival tune, that was a special moment.

But I kept getting dragged back to The Park. It was nearing the time for the special guests of the evening. The Park was getting into the swing of supplying outstanding special performances and tonight would be no exception. Imagine my surprise when they suddenly announced...

FRANZ FERDINAND

Not billed to play and yet there they were onstage! I got as close as I could and made friends with a bloke called Glenn. Glenn, if you're out there, it was nice to talk to you. The 'Nand ripped into 'Matinee', 'Michael', 'Do You Want To' and, strangely, mid-set 'Take Me Out' which is up there with one of my favourite singles ever. Proof that the music scene is ever-changing, lead singer Alex Kapranos mentioned that one girl had asked the band "Which part of Sheffield are you from?" The band finished with 'This Fire' and proved that for brevity, wit and pop-rock Franz Ferdinand are still among the best in the land.

And I decided to call it quits, I was shattered and the wellies weren't helping, so I got an early night in and prayed the rain would not return...

Thursday 3 July 2008

Thursday 26th June

I'm not entirely sure how I'd got to bed the night before, though was safe in the knowledge it had to do with entering the realm of 'ciderspace'. Deciding to waste no time, I got dressed and clambered out of my tent to a fair morning, though clouds hung ominously in the sky.

But some of that wasn't cloud, some of it was smoke. Walking down to the field next to the Glade, a green space dominated by the Orange Chill 'n' Charge Tent, I was greeted with the sight of a huge, billowing black plume of smoke off to the north east of the festival. Had one of the helicopters gone down? Was Shepton Mallet on fire? Had James Blunt's tour bus blown up? (no such luck) The fire turned out to be from a scrapyard, on the edge of the festival site. The smoke was so bad, people were evacuated from their homes and was attended to by sixteen different fire crews. For the festival it caused a big logistical problem. The nearest train station at Castle Cary was beginning to get rammed full of festival goers with nowhere to go, as the busses couldn't make it through the smoke. They were in turn attended to by the Red Cross. It's amazing what you miss when you're inside your tent, sleeping.

My loose plan for the day was to tour the site, meet Mark and go and visit the Leftfield, after they'd been ever so nice to me on Twitter. I achieved two of these three, which considering wasn't bad. The site was beginning to fill out nicely, and revellers were taking a very relaxed approach, as opposed to the frantic sprint of yesterday. In front of the Pyramid stage, a game of cricket had broken out, the grass as yet unspoilt by muddy boots and empty drinks cartons. A succession of three professional photographers took pictures as one lad demonstrated a not-bad cover drive. This really was England in the summertime. My meanderings took me down to the Leftfield where they'd had the audacity to start proceedings early with a band from London called

THE CRACK

about whom I recall very little, except they were from London and their name is probably meant ironically. Not as bad as DOES IT OFFEND YOU, YEAH? which we concluded sounded a lot like the sort of band Jeremy from Peep Show would belong to. I didn't stick around.

I arranged to meet my friends in front of the bandstand, famous for being the place the tragic, naked, masturbating woman was to be found in a series of pics that plagued the internet for several years after they were taken. Prior to my arrival I decided to undertake my first piece of journalism and interview a bookshop, you can read the sublime and ridiculous results here...

THE MIGHTY PEAS

First up on the Bandstand were a three-piece skiffle-jazz group who played covers of popular songs. The results were great, from 'Crazy in Love' by Beyonce to 'Lose Yourself' by Eminem, the band were cheeky, self-depricating and thoroughly likeable. Go on, book them for a wedding or something. They also cover The Littlest Hobo theme. Thinking about it, I wasn't that amazed I knew all the words.

THE GLITZY BAGHAGS

Bit biased here as I went to school with some of the Glitzys and had seen them before. Describing themselves as 'skiffle swing gypsy jazz' the Glitzys are like a tiny party in your pocket. Filling the smallest spaces they always seem to get people dancing with tunes such as 'Ebay', 'HassleHoff' and continuing the kids tv theme 'Dangermouse'. You certainly get your money's worth with each song seemingly lasting the best part of six or seven minutes. If I've got one minor gripe (and it's tiny) it's that the vocals are sometimes a bit on the quiet, mumbled side. Listening to Joe Jarlett, move between the sax and then rapping along with 'Super Sharp Shooter' occasionally something gets lost in the translation. Still I made sure I saw 'em twice over the weekend.

By this point it was time to gather more food in preparation for the evening's festivities. In the Glade, the festival's dedicated dance space under the trees, they were testing the sound setup with 'Insomnia' by Faithless. A small crowd gathered to party by the cordoned-off area and I experienced another one of those moments where I thought this festival was going to be truly amazing.

THE SILENT DISCO

I'd never been to the Silent Disco before and it quickly became one of my favourite things in the world. Ever. You get given a pair of headphones which are tuned to a frequency the DJ in the disco is playing on. Only, there's another DJ next to him who's broadcasting on a different channel. A quick flick of the switch you can go from rock to rave. Even better was that DJ OD was broadcasting live to the whole of Holland, a point he kept making between each song and getting us to cheer. Having the music pumped directly into your ears allows for a much more personal experience, though it never seems alienating. If there's one near you, go!

Our emergence from the Silent Disco was not promising. The rain had begun. We'd been promised light showers, but this was full-on deluge. We grumpily piled into the Bimble Inn, a small cider bar near the entrace to the Park. We watched with misery as the sand castle sculptures fell apart and the rain drummed on the canvas roof.

I can't remember whose dumb-ass idea it was, but we decided to upsticks to Shangri-La, the festival's replacement for Lost Vagueness who had fallen out with organiser Eavis. We trudged (rapidly becoming my most-used word in festival reviews) down the railway track. This wasn't supposed to happen, it was supposed to be a good year! Images of 2005 and 2007, swam into view, the mud would come and the festival would suffer. We found a neat looking cafe tent to shelter inside, only its roof wasn't holding up to the rain either. Water poured down onto my back and hooded top, I was soaked. It was time to go to bed and dry off.

I lay in my tent listening to the drumming on the roof, shivering inside my sleeping bag. What the hell was I doing? I was 29 years old, the average age of the audience here was about 18, it was pissing with rain and I was cold, muddy and alone in a field in Somerset. This was for losers surely? You wouldn't catch Daniel Craig doing this would you? I had to become adult at some point wouldn't I? I resoved to buy a copy of Arena when I left this mess, smarten up, act like a man, alright a tosspot, but still a man, at least go to bed in half-dignified manner... I grimaced as I considered how much a new suit would cost and promptly had nightmares.

Wednesday 2 July 2008

Glastonbury - Wednesday 25th June

Things hadn't gone according to plan. I arrived excited and ready for the festival at my parents' house in Somerset. They live quite nearby and so dropping me on to the site would be no problem. All I had to do was wait for my brother arrive to give me my ticket.

Only, when he returned from the pub, he didn't have it. He said he'd SENT IT TO ME in London. I'd never received it. In fact I'd never even had a card from the Post Office telling me it was waiting for me. We got on the phone to See Tickets who were able to confirm that the ticket had indeed been sent and was sitting at the Sorting Office at the Upper Holloway Post Office, Archway, London. I was livid. I therefore had two choices, go back to the capital, or burn another £160 on getting in on Wednesday. I chose the latter. Less hassle, I thought... How wrong I was...

I hit the ground running about 11am, the refusal of any of the stewards on the roads to give me correct information about the whereabouts of the ticket office lead to me trekking with tent and two rucksacks for half an hour. In front of the coach park were two portacabins, one queue for International Tickets, one for National Ticket Collection. I joined the queue.

And we waited. And waited... And...

It started off amicably enough. People laughed at having to wait, they optimistically predicted the queue would start moving quicker once more tickets had been distributed. Drinks were shared, rollies made for friends you'd just met. "We're British, we love to queue!" We'll get through this. And the hours dragged on.

People began to sit down in their foldaway chairs or just collapse on the floor in heaps sometimes indistinguishable from their tents and sleeping bags. Some began to sing songs and tell rude jokes, the drinking spurring on the crudity. All the time, the coaches dropped off more people, more walked past us with tickets. Some queued with us until they realised their mistake and legged-it for the main gate. As the mid-afternoon sun beat down, the sense of bonhomie began to disappear. A football was repeatedly booted into the crowd, once on to the roof of the cabin, to be reclaimed by the erstwhile David Beckham who then got told-off by security. The football then found it's way to the ticket booth itself, hitting the window in protest for the wait. Abuse was hurled from our queue to the arrivees, "That your GAY-ZEEBO, mate? Don't put it up near me, I'll torch the f*cker." We kept a careful watch on those at the front of the queue, had they got theirs yet? The sighing and staring was occasionally pierced by cries of joy, "I'VE GOT IT! LET'S GO! LET'S DO SOME CRACK!".

Rumours filtered back down the queue. None of the tickets were in alphabetical order (this was true), one bloke was in charge of looking for them (this was also true), some tickets weren't there at all (yes, true as well) we inched closer to the magic window. After four and a half hours it was my turn. There was the one guy in charge, Flustered Bloke, his hair, what little of it there was, was white. Had it been dark when he started this morning? I handed over my booking reference, credit card and picture ID. He rifled through a collection of envelopes. No sign. He tried another. Nada. He passed me back my papers.

"There's nothing here for you, we'll have to send for a replacement from the Farm."

I was crushed. I'd failed to make it across the border. I was going into a holding-pen like a refugee. This wasn't a festival, this was Children of Men. Plonking my bags on the floor I propped my head up against a railing and tried not to cry. Next to me, a group of teenagers who'd been there for six hours were chatting, knocking back the cider and painting their fingernails with felt-tips. Worryingly, two of them were called Oscar. Kiwi Oscar, who'd blagged his way to the front of the queue, tried to engage me in conversation, but my replies were monosyllabic, he probably considered me to be some sort of party vampire and quickly moved on. By now the group by the ticket office had swelled as the staff inside the portacabin realised that more and more tickets weren't there. Every forty minutes or so, security would turn up in a van, six of them inside (hilariously) to deliver 15 or so tickets, freshly minted from Worthy Farm. Eagerly we'd all gather around like soldiers waiting for mail from home for our names to be called. I think it's fair to say the whole thing was suffering quite badly from piss poor organisation.

So now the crowd was getting angry. "I PREDICT A RIOT!" someone yelled from the back, theories about storming the ticket booth were formed, they couldn't hold us all... The staff began to panic. People were asked to stand back, walkie-talkies were chattered into. More security arrived. They were asked to create a pocket around the booth so that Flustered Bloke could issue replacement tickets to those of us that didn't have them. Apparently it had taken six hours of waiting before the Farm finally gave him permission to do this. We looked on anxiously. Flustered Bloke moved as quickly as he could, distributing tickets to the rowdier idiots who were hassling security (the twat from Belfast knows who he is). Eventually they got to me, cos I'd at least been patient (despite the pained expression). In the end I was issued a ticket with my name written on it in biro - £320's worth.

Clutching at it like Charlie on his way to the Chocolate Factory I heaved my kit into the festival. I'll freely admit, I was feeling fed-up, until I saw the Other Stage looming up before me, reminding me why I was there. The dust kicked up on the railway line as the sun filtered through the trees and then yes, once the tent was erected and helped myself to a cheeseburger AND a slice of pizza, I got to the Brother's Bar. It all got me back on track for why I did it. So day one... £320 and six hours down... Pass me the Pear Cider, this'll go down like a fat kid on a seesaw.