DAY 0 – FIFE -> GLASGOW -> BESTIVAL
King Creosote (Kenners) had been up at a wedding in the north of Scotland the day before we were due to play at Bestival. He left the wedding at 5pm, and drove for 5 hours straight in his wee Peugeot – meeting his brother, Pip Dylan, and myself at Glasgow’s Buchanan Bus Station at 10pm. I had a masssssive rucksack, filled with the following things:
* 10 pairs pants
* 8 pairs socks
* 9 t-shirts
* 2 collared shirts
* my long shorts
* 2 hoodies
* 1 towel
* my Micro-Korg keyboard synth
* my Boss ME-50 multi-effects pedal
* 50 copies of Secret Soundz Vol.1
* 4 long guitar leads
* tuning pedal
* 2 power adaptors, and a 4-way plug extension
* my wash bag
* my sleeping bag
* my diary … oh, and a pen
It was a pretty big bag. I wanted to pack more, but couldn’t fit it. I had heard on the radio that morning that Bestival was already a mud-fest. But i had no room for wellies … so my pristine green trainers were gonna have to take a brown bath. Balls.
On top of all that, i was carrying my guitar. Kenners car boot doesn’t open, so it was a right b*stard to shove it all in.
So off we were, from Glasgow … driving over night to Southampton, to make the 7am ferry across to the Isle Of Wight. Kenners’ wee girl, Beth, was stuck in the back with me. She’d thought up a new rhyming game, that she was eager to play. Here’s the rules. Beth says the phrase “Barcelona might smell like …”, and then you have to think of a phrase that rhymes with the word “might”. It’s an odd game – at times surreal (“kite”, “white”, “light”), at times just xenophobic (err, “shite”). Shite always gets a laugh though. In fact, the word “shite” is always funniest when you say it whilst laughing. It’s pretty tricky too.
First stop was the service station for some petrol and some quick eats. I’m a bit of a connoisseur of service stations, having toured the length and breadth of these fair isles over the past 5 years as King Creosote’s guitarist. Nevertheless, for some reason i saw fit to choose the steak-bake (or ‘dog-food pie’ as Pip Dylan calls it) from the garage bakery. I went for the new (and overpriced) Blueberry-Blackcurrent Tropicana drink. It said “naturally sparkling” on the bottle. How does that work, then? Are things ever “naturally sparkling”? Eh?! Is that just what happens when you combine blueberries and blackcurrents? Do they spontaneously just produce some fizzy concoction? Did they plan that – or was it just by accident?
People NEVER like the sound of snoring. Even when they’re not trying to sleep.
It’s nice anyway.
By the time i had reached the bottom of my bag of Quavers, i was ready to pass out. Pip Dylan kept tapping my leg to keep me awake though. I’m a snorer, y’see. And Kenners car doesn’t have a working stereo. And people NEVER like the sound of snoring. Even when they’re not trying to sleep. Why? Beats me.
ANYWAY, we make it down to Southampton for 6am, so get on the earlier ferry across to the Isle of Wight. We finally get to the festival site, and have a few hours to piss about before the first of our two sets. Waiting to play is the worst part about gigging. Particularly on no sleep. Argh.
People NEVER like the sound of snoring. Even when they’re not trying to sleep
As everyone knows, festivals ain’t about music. They’re about celebs. Celebs pretending to be cool when stranded in mud, but in actual fact feeling like they are trapped in hell. Here’s some celebs i saw:
* Alan Carr (wearing pink shades)
* Wayne Hemmingway (the fashion guy who’s a bit bald and looks like Alan Carr)
* Miquita Olivier (looking distinctly not chuffed)
* Get Coat, Eat Crap, Flump (or whatever he’s called)
Great stuff.
Two King Creosote shaped sets later, and we’re slumped over a table drinking lager, waiting for a van to come and rescue us from the mud, and take us back to our car (on the other side of the festival site). We could’ve walked, but it would’ve meant lugging our equipment. I’m lying. We wouldn’t have walked. We’re celebs. Pretending to be cool.
No matter how good a time you have at ANY festival, you are always glad to get home. The post-Bestival faces on the ferry back to Southampton very much reflect this. Everyone looks like they’ve just given birth. Happy, yes … but relieved mostly. And covered in mucas. Eww.
I’m not about to go home, however. I’m about to embark on a week long tour of the south of England with another Fence Records act, Rozi Plain – so Kenny drops me off at Southampton station, and drives off into the distance. I take the train to Reading, and stay at my girlfriend’s parents place in Wokingham. Some tea and toast then bed. I say a little prayer for Kenners safe trip back to Fife, and then start to read the first page of ‘Carry On, Jeeves’ by PG Wodehouse, passing out after the second paragraph.
