Turn Left at the Womble - follow up extract

(Not included in the "Turn Left at The Womble" was what happened to me at Glastonbury in 2011. This is the fourth, and final, extract I've posted on here I think. It's all a bit factual without any of my usual polishing and I'm into a bigger piece somehere along the line;with a bit more structure. For now its's just a working draft).

Friday.

Again I woke up dead early at about  5.45 a.m. or so.

Tried to go back to sleep knowing I would be working till 3 the next morning, but in one of those “I’ve-got- to-sleep-just-got-to-get-to-sleep-oh-shit-can’t-drop-off-viscous circles” I just couldn’t fall asleep again so got up at 7- ish.

I peeked out of the tent. Oh my, but those skies were grey and cloudy. Anyhow, best get some breakfast. Plenty of coffee later and showered etc and it was now about 10 ish. Rang home to see what the BBC were saying what the weather would be like. Wait for this-“Light rain 10 am -4 pm. Heavy rain, thunder, lightening & strong winds 4 pm -4 am.” Blimey.

I went back to the tent and made sure everything was secure and wrapped up nice and dry. Everything in the rucksack-dry clothes etc bagged in plastic. Zips tight on the doors .Guy ropes tight and tent pegs deep in the ground. After yet another coffee I plucked up my courage and picked up my brolly I headed off to see what I could get to. (It’s not all rock and roll and living at the edge at Glasto. All this stuff about leaving the world behind and being someone else for a few days etc is quite frankly bollocks when the most significant thing is making sure you have a good brolly!)  

By now it had been raining on and off for about 24 hours and combined with the footsteps of well over 100,000 people there wasn’t an inch of grass left anywhere. It was all mud as far as you could see. Walking anywhere was a nightmare. Each step took forever and the mud was at best 1 foot deep and in places threatened to rise over the top of your wellies with the obvious consequences. I had already heard rumours of a lost welly mountain over 6 feet high by one of the main stages. People were falling over all the time and covered head to foot. Without being obsessive there were seemed to be two main types of mud-the first was the really sticky stuff that trapped your feet and threatened your wellies with extinction. The second was the watery stuff that splashed everywhere and made all your clothes turn into a monochrome brown Jackson Pollock –type walking sculpture.

By the time I got to the Pyramid Stage-it was impossible and too tiring just to get anywhere further- which took over an hour and a half- and was the nearest stage to the campsite, I felt as if I had run a triathlon. However, the good side was that I was there for the start of it all. I saw the Master Musicians of Joujouka kick it all off; ironically desert music in what was far from a desert. I had a little wander through the mud and tried and failed to get to some of the other stage-it was just too muddy. By the time I had grabbed a bite to eat and another coffee and saw Two Door Cinema Club at the Pyramid it had begun to rain again-persistent drizzle. This took the shine a bit from the thought of seeing Wu Tang Crew. I trudged back to the site with the sounds of BB King floating in the rain and spent a couple of hours sheltering in the mess tent generally chatting and shooting the breeze.

All the news was that it would rain till the early hours and then be fine on Saturday but blazing hot on Sunday. Everyone was pissed off with the mud though. And, as if proving the BBC correct, at 4 o’clock the heavens opened. Christ, did it rain. The sky was as dark grey as could be and it came down like stair rods. Someone said to me that it wouldn’t be Glasto without a bit of rain and mud and I wouldn’t have experienced it properly until then. Whilst not agreeing entirely at the time, looking back on it now they were quite right. I feel like I have been there, done that etc. (But once is enough.)

Anyway, off to work for 7 pm-i.e. leaving on the mad hike there at 5.30.Yomped past Biffy Clyro and their incredibly shite posturing on the main stage without breaking stride and got into the bar with 15  minutes to go. The whole evening was a bit of blur actually. There were a couple of bands playing-trip hop stuff and then some DJs. It was ok. I was due a half hour break at about 11.00 pm and had intended to at least pop to see a bit of U2. By then though the wind had got up and the rain was sweeping across everywhere at 45 degrees. Lightning lit up the sky and rolls of thunder could be heard every now and then. Discretion being the better part of valour my break consisted of a Mars Bar, cup of tea and a banana at the back of the bar and discussing if U2 were any good.

By the time the Mexican Wrestling act came on at 1.00 am together with full sized ring, masks and capes and signs for everyone to boo or cheer, the place was bouncing and the thoughts of Chairman Bono were far from my mind.  After El Macho was declared the winner (don’t think that they were actually from Mexico-sure I heard a few Brummie accents off stage)-the shift had finished as it was 3.30 am. I hauled my knackered legs back to the site, grabbed a coffee and all headed off back to my tent at 5 ish. Too tired to see if anything had leaked or blown away, I dropped off just as the rain died away and the first rays of sun (!) edged at the clouds.         

Get/read "Turn Left at the Womble -How a 48 year old Dad Survived his first time at Glastonbury" here 


http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0060YCKGW 
   

unedited extracts no.1 camille-le fil

For the want of much Glasto news, I thought that for now (or at least for a while) maybe I should carry on writing about music. And for this, a few scrapped,unedited extracts from the new book.  


Camille-Le Fil

  

 

 

An album that made me realise finally that a) not everything needs to be sung in English for it to be enjoyable and b) because of this, maybe the exact words don’t really matter at all. I have no idea about what Camille is singing about on this record (it’s in French). She could be running through her shopping list or giving us an especially complicated recipe; it could be a run through the telephone directory of a small town or maybe something really trite and soppy. It doesn’t matter one bit because her voice is so spectacular and soaring. Because she puts so much passion into it I do have a sense that what she is singing is important and meaningful. Maybe it’s all to do with the language after all. Maybe it’s my perceptions of French; it wouldn’t sound the same if she was from say, Wigan or Preston (although that would be an interesting option; maybe that’ll be the next thing-albums remixed with Northern accents).

What is remarkable to me and seems to run throughout most (but not all) of these albums that I’vewritten about is that they were unexpected. Unexpected in the sense that I’d never heard of some of these artists until I’d heard the albums; or if I had, then only in passing or that they’d not made much of an impression upon me. With this album by Camille (as well as, say Young Marble Giants "Colossal Youth" album) what is inspiring is that these records come out of seemingly nowhere and although, by and large,they’ve been made by people in their very early twenties, they are works that have stood the test of time. This is art that belies the relative immaturity of the artists; what’s truly staggering is that someone so young can have the vision to produce something so original and intense.

It is impossible just to pick one track off this record; you’d have to listen to the whole thing. (And that’s part of it; literally part of it. Although there are distinct songs and different tracks it’s all strung together by a low hum that’s playing in the background from the beginning the end of the album. This is the thread referred to in the album title but as I don’t speak French I’m not sure if that’s correct.)

It’s just a beautiful record.