"Aw, You're Like A Beautiful Sandwich..."

Good evening, my glorious little internet buboes!

You find me contentedly sighing and full of bubbling whimsy (I've always felt that whimsy should bubble, haven't you?), for I have returned from a simply magical weekend in London, previously one of my least favourite places on the planet. Yet now I find myself aching to return to the train station, throw my money at the grimacing little troll behind the filthy plastic windowpane and leap aboard the first train that can take me back there. Preferably without tripping over my own feet like that most graceful of creatures, the Redneckian Essex Moose.

But oh! most magnificently imposing and just master, I hear you cry, what could have happened to change your mind so quickly and thoroughly?

Well settle down, beloved minions, and I will tell you.

I took my leave of the workplace on Friday the 13th at approximately 15:30 by slamming my completed workload into the storage cupboard and with a cheerful bellow of "See ya next week!", stepped out of the office with a very real spring in my step. You see, my faithful toadies, I had been planning this trip for some time, with a very specific aim in mind. But more on that later.

I strolled to the bus stop and within a very reasonable amount of time found myself back in my lair, where I began plotting in earnest. There was a considerable amount of packing to do. Into my reliable bugout bag went the ablution gear, the shirts and jeans, the unmentionables and the various wires and chargers and anbaric gadgetry without which I would struggle to make it through a week. In went two bottles of adequately tasty booze. In went my miniature identikit, my passport, cashcard and train tickets. Soon enough, I was ready. A head-clearing shower and a thorough primping later, I shouldered my bags and set off to North Station. The evening was just settling down, a clear sky with the first twinkling of stars and a gentle breeze that helped to keep my constantly rambling brain relatively clear. The walk was an excellent start to the weekend - I was not accosted, every crossing turned green before I even had a chance to begin my usual inward grumbling at being forced to wait, and there were few people heading in the opposite direction, which made one of my least favourite games, Dodge-The-Elbows, a lot easier.

Once at North Station it was a simple matter of going to the fourth platform and waiting. Fifteen minutes flew by and my train arrived. I shall not bore you with the details of my train journey, suffice to say it felt surprisingly short and was otherwise wholly unremarkable.

However, when the faithful steel horse arrived at my destination, I begin to feel a twinge of trepidation. Fear, my minions, is a very real thing. Yes, even for I, your most beneficient and righteous master. As I disembarked at Stratford, amid gleaming glass and metal platforms, surrounded by the hurrying, scurrying packs of humans, I felt the chill hand of fear on my shoulder. What if I had arrived here for nothing but denial and heartbreak? Cease your bickering, minions. I am far from finished. I continued through the terminal, staring tactlessly at the myriad signs and notices arrayed on the walls, clearly lost. As though fate were taking a momentary interest in my movements, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. It was Amanda.

Minions! Stop your childish cheering or there will be no ice-cream! Now settle!

I spoke with her for mere moments, in which the fear began to dissipate, and was directed to the correct exit. A great, cold doorway flanked by security guards in dark blue uniforms, ushering the public through with cursory nods and hastily mumbled directions, stood between me and fate. I made my way through and took up what I hoped was a pose which would strike trepidation into the hearts of my enemies but show that I was not a villain waiting for some unsuspecting immigrant to badger for change. This was nothing more than a kind of utterly knackered slump moderated by shivering brought on by the chill wind of Stratford's open air. And suddenly the fear rushed back. The shivering worsened as my jumpstarted brain began drawing horrible conclusions for the coming encounter - but you need not worry yourselves with that.

And as it turned out, neither should I.

She arrived and strode towards me, eyes alight, garbed in a warm, black coat which was no doubt better protection than my tattered faux-leather jacket. We greeted each other with what I like to think was a tender kiss and a tight embrace, and all my ridiculous anxieties melted away like ice under the blazing sunlight. I felt a tugging at my heart, and suddenly the prospect of spending any amount of time with a creature as incredible as she spun from being a thing of terror to one of comfort, edged with that pleasant tingle of emotion which I had dared not anticipate.

Now, rather than completely saturate your tiny minds with epic prose detailing your master's unfathomable capacity for romance and dashing swashbuckle...y...ness... I will simply tell you of the fascinating and new experiences I was introduced to.

My Friday was spent in a pleasant haze of warmth and comfort, with hearty, filling food and talking well into the night. Truth be told this was a fantastic start to my weekend, with only each other for company and a wonderful (if shoddily captured) view of the financial district.

~{@}~

~{@}~

Saturday creeped in and found me curled up in another of what was to become many close and comforting hugs, and drawing back the curtains revealed a clear, sunny sky over London, which was certainly a reassuring start to the day. A lazy start was planned, with plenty of fun to follow. Breakfast was one of my personal favourites; a cigarette and a cup of tea followed by slices of marmite on toast. Simple, but yeasty and delicious.

A quick trip to a vintage record store called The Beehive preceded our little jaunt to Greenwich Market, and I had a thorough browse while Amanda went about hunting for something through the vintage clothing section, and while I didn't purchase anything myself she was delighted with her acquisition of a suitably starry jumper. I wore the first of many genuine smiles while she expounded on the virtues of such an excellent choice.

Greenwich Market followed swiftly, and I have to say it certainly didn't disappoint.

A flurry of scents and sounds was the first thing that struck me, and the mass of humanity for once didn't annoy me. I have to say that the presence of a tall, graceful woman on my arm was undoubtedly the source of my contentment. We strolled around for a short time, and I couldn't help myself but purchase some fancy cheeses. Not too fancy, mind, just nice enough to make for a tasty table. I purchase a hundred grams of Formaggio Umbriaco, commonly known as "Drunk Cheese", and a nice bit of Goat's Brie!

With a bag of delicious cheese and a starry jumper for our trouble, we took a swift detour back home to get ready for an even grander adventure once Amanda saw how much I'd enjoyed myself in the market. So after a brief consultation we set off for Borough Market!

We headed down the road to Deptford Station to catch the train, nattering away at each other and enjoying the combination of sunlight and cold winter air, when we were halted by a tiny, obviously sozzled woman. "Excuse me love," she said to my companion in the sort of Irish accent I tend to associate with smoky rooms and stories about close family members who've buggered off for better places,"I couldn't help but notice you, 'cause you are very tall. But I don't suppose you could spare some change for..." She went on a bit and the pair of us gave the lady enough change to put towards a small drink. On my part this was an almost unseen gesture of generosity which I can only chalk up to the all-encompassing feeling that I can only describe as, "You know what? I'm having a great day, you should have one too!" But today, I didn't mind. Heck, I think if I was a wealthy man I would have given her a note. She asked me where I was from, bless her. My simple response of, "Essex!" didn't get the sneer I might've expected from London inhabitants, but rather a cheery smile which to be honest, looked good on her!

We carried on through to Deptford High Street, and as my lady friend pointed out, the change was dramatic. Now I don't know London, and I don't know Greenwich as well as I mean to, but the almost snap-change from clean (ish) pavements and new buildings of glass and steel to cramped and filthy old shops was remarkable. There was a definite atmosphere of, not poverty specifically, but definitely hard times. During the little dance around the Oyster card machines (which I believe are actually powered by tiny malevolent imps who delight in denying my newly-acquired card just to see the look of perplexed anger on my face) we were forced to carefully pass by two fellows arguing, well, one shouting at the other with palatable anger and the other protesting innocence, which was actually less tense than it should have been, considering there was about three inches between our faces and the angry gentleman's flailing elbows. But we made it to the platform and boarded the overground to London Bridge and Borough Market!

I thought Greenwich Market was fun - but bloody hell, the Borough Market was something else entirely. If I'd thought the smells and sounds earlier were intoxicating, the sheer cascade of scent and noise here was like a battering ram, albeit a distinctly pleasant one. We were surrounded on all sides by stalls and tables stuffed to bursting with people, all trying to get at the cornucopia of items on sale. I cannot begin to describe the variety of food, preservatives, drinks (though the delicious smell of hot cider remains with me even now - and I hate the stuff!) and sweets.

We managed to work our way through the throng of people with little difficulty, though once or twice the general ignorance of the creatures known as Mob, Rabble and Crowd did become a frustration. Nonetheless we procured a number of tasty items that would go into our table of picking food later in the evening, namely sundried tomatoes with garlic and herbs, pain de campagne bread and prosciutto toscana ham. ...NOM NOM NOM NOM.

I also managed to pick up a particularly excellent little bit of meat which I spotted and decided within the second to purchase. When was I going to get a chance to buy some fresh, skinned and gutted squirrel again?

YOU HEARD ME! Squirrel! The grey-furred meat! NUT RAT! What kind of incredible place was this that my lady had brought me, where I could purchase delicious tree-dwelling mammals to devour at my leisure? I'd been having an amazing weekend already, and now a kind of dead animal I've never sampled is made available to me, all because a pretty woman indulged my urge to go to a market! Brilliant!

My whim fulfilled, we decided to grab something to actually eat, and the giant sizzling pan of duck meat being pushed around by a talkative if incomprehensible woman of possible Eastern-European descent was Amanda's immediate choice. And an excellent choice at that! Succulent duck meat in a ciabatta roll with fresh roquette was probably the last thing I would expect to find myself eating as a midday meal outside a pub, but there I was, happily munching away and, quite frankly, really bloody enjoying myself.

A return home was on the cards at this point, but not before stopping at a cake stall on our way back and buying a slice of chocolate cake and german cheesecake! While I didn't think to take a picture of these delicious sweets, I can assure you that they were very, very good, though on reflection the chocolate was the better of the two - something about the cheesecake didn't quite sit right with my tastebuds.

Dinner was an excellent plate of all the nibbly bits we'd picked up in the markets, served with a bottle of red wine recommended by Marks and Sparks. It was actually top noshing:

A short while afterward, though, we came across a conundrum - each of us is quite fond of a drink, but there was no rum to be had! So, a quick look at the clock suddenly showed that it was too late to hit a supermarket but we might JUST make it to an off-licence or Costcutter's. We grabbed our coats and headed swiftly out into the chill London night, heading to the nearest booze seller - the Costcutter's. Somehow, they had managed to sell all the decent rum. This was not to be suffered, however, and at Amanda's urging we broke into a power-walk, which slowed when we linked arms once again. But then, out of nowhere, she decided that it would be far quicker and much more fun to swing each other along. We took it in turns, each swinging the other forward for a metre or two of increased speed, then swinging again and again, and, you know, I've never, ever been so amused by the simple act of going to get a drink. And if you're wondering, yes, I did have a song in my head as we went, laughing and twirling each other around.

And it was this:

We procured a bottle of rum from an off-licence at the edge of Deptford and headed back home for drinks and swapping music, and I am being utterly honest when I say that that little adventure made me feel like I was eighteen again. It was fucking glorious.

After a few hours more we settled in for a night of watching television and snuggling down together, and again, I have to say that this was one of my favourite things of the weekend. It had been so very very long since I'd spent any time with a girl, let alone a girl as passionate and honest as Amanda, and every second of contact felt so undeniably, intrinsically good that it seemed to turn the entire weekend into one long, fuzzy blur of sweetness and soft kisses. Even my innate paranoia spends most of its time quashed by her presence.

~{@}~

~{@}~

When we woke on Sunday morning, the curtains were gingerly drawn back to reveal another gloriously sunny day. We had a wonderfully slow morning with the pair of us barely leaving the bed - MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER, MINIONS - which felt justified after the lively, busy, undeniably Saturdayish Saturday, and after a fortifying breakfast of smoked salmon sandwiches (I know, right? Smoked salmon sandwiches! I've never had one before! It was DELISHUS) Amanda booked us a table at a place called Tayyabs for our evening meal. A restaurant specialising in Pakistani Punjabi cuisine, which I for one have never even thought about, let alone tried, the website made it seem friendly and interesting, and more importantly, not massively expensive. Yes, I'm something of a skinflint, I've never denied this, but this place looked to have the right balance of price:pleasure for me and my ever-fearful wallet.

We had a couple of hours to pass before our meal, so I decided on requesting a trip to the nearest bookstore, which turned out to be well worth the wait - I'd been eyeing the place up since my arrival on Friday night, and was confidently reassured by Amanda's opinion of the place, which claimed to be open from 13:00 to 17:30 each day - although in the tradition of all truly excellent bookshops, this was entirely based upon the owner's decision. So after a bit of preparation and smartening up in advance of our evening meal, we headed over to the bookshop, a place simply called the Greenwich Book Place and Gallery, which, it turns out, has a very interesting history.

It was brilliant. Absolutely rammed with books old and new, though my favourite species of book, the ancient, cracked, leatherbound tome, was in abundance. Teetering piles of old novels and treatises on just about every subject one cares to think about were strewn about the place in a wonderfully haphazard fashion, with the spaces broken up by collections of real rarities, including, much to my delight and dismay (for the glass cases were each clearly marked NOT FOR SALE - oh woe!) a little chap called The Use and Misuse of Books by Frederic Harrison. Don't get me wrong, I'm by no means a true connoisseur of the written word, but I would have given someone else's right arm for a look at that one. The second back room was a treasure trove of Sociology books, and after consulting the signs outside, this seemed to be a speciality.

Amanda came through to find me guiltily brushing my fingers over the spines of terrible science fiction novels from the sixties and seventies (every last one of which I would have bought had I the money to spare), and gleefully showed me her purchase: a wrapped issue of an old magazine called Jackie she'd picked up for £2.50. Specifically THIS issue. Their hair looks... exciting.

She was incredibly pleased with the acquisition, which of course brought an empathic grin to my face. I finally decided on a book (also £2.50) which had the intriguing title of The Electric Crocodile (Although this was apparently an alternate title , the original being The Steel Crocodile) by David G. Compton. I had thought the back cover laughable, becau- oh hell, just read it:

In 1933, the physicist Kapitza ordered, for the facade of his new laboratory, a crocodile's head, in steel.

The crocodile of science.

The crocodile cannot turn its head. Like Science, it must always go forward with all-devouring jaws. The inevitable logic of discovery marches to inescapable conclusions.

But after reading the first page, I was desperate to know what would happen. I bought it and stroked the cover lovingly whenever I thought no-one was watching, and it currently sits patiently by my bedside, waiting for me to finish George Orwell's Shooting An Elephant (and other essays).

Brimming with the familiar joy that a new book purchase brings, I announced that I was done, and that I was ready for dinner. I offered my arm to Amanda, she took it with another adorable smile and we set off to Whitechapel, eagerly speculating over the evening ahead.

We managed to get to Tayyabs almost forty-five minutes earlier than arranged, but luckily there was a spare table. The smell of spices and meat wafted through the restaurant, and while I'm not one for salivating, I could definitely feel a tingling in my tongue at the prospect of new cuisine to try. The place was really busy, and we found ourselves sat at the window end of one long table, setting ourselves up and almost immediately cracking on with the little plate of poppadoms, salad and sauces provided to us. We chatted happily for a while, going through the menus, which had apparently gone up in price a bit but nevertheless looked reasonable to me. We ordered a couple of glasses of coke and, at Amanda's insistence, which I am very pleased to say was completely justified, we ordered four lamb chops, a garlic naan and a roti to start. The food arrived at surprising speed, and it smelled amazing. We'd only managed a chop each when the mains turned up, a dish of rice for us to share, a plate of Karahi Ghosht for the lady and an Allo Meat (consisting of lamb) for me!

We engaged in a playful bit of food-trading, which is one of my favourite things to do at a new restaurant, and decided that everything was lovely. We munched our way through the dinner, with Amanda looking momentarily concerned at her ability to finish the dish but coming back at it like a trooper (I do love a woman who appreciates food) and me wolfing down everything I could reach, which is my wont. I almost nabbed a nearby diner's elbow instead of the bowl at one point, so eager was I to finish the spicy meal.

Something I feel I must mention at this point is that, while I could definitely hear our dining neighbours and knew they were there, our little spot at the end of the table felt nicely secluded. Which sounds preposterous when you consider each of us was no more than a foot away from someone else noisily enjoying their own selections, but it's true. It really felt like a dinner for two. I could feel the now familiar pink fog of emotion that had begun to envelop my mind when spending time with Amanda settle over me during the evening, and I can say now that I think it made everything feel this way; like it was just for us.

Eventually we finished our meals and, after judiciously rolling a couple of cigarettes for afters, paid the bill and began the journey home. I would like to point out that over the course of this weekend I travelled more than I ever have when in London before. Obviously having a beautiful woman on my arm (I never grow tired of saying that!) enhanced the experience, and the sense that she was enjoying herself just as much as I was added to the constant feeling of something which I was beginning to think was more than simple happiness.

We took a detour on the way home, and Amanda brought me along to see where she was studying. When she speaks about things that she enjoys, or even things she doesn't, she speaks with an intensity which I have never experienced outside of my own rambling rants about petty revenge; but the things she speaks about are interesting. With her hand clutched in mine and folded into my pocket to protect her fingers against the chill London evening, she spoke about her studies and local sights with an utterly endearing passion. We stopped for a drink before heading back home properly, and spent some time huddled together on a couch in the smoking area of the pub Amanda confidently informed me was a regular student hangout. At her suggestion I decided to try one of the independent and unusual lagers available on tap, which, it turned out, where all off. I settled for a Heineken - I didn't need fancy beer to enjoy her company!

We talked for some time - we always seem to talk for longer than I think, in a surprisingly pleasant way - about so many things. Past relationships (my own experience here was, not humiliatingly sparse, but definitely lacking - but you, dear minions, are already aware of this), music, our childhoods... These were some of the several recurring themes we discussed throughout the weekend and have discussed several times prior, but for some reason being curled up next to her on that couch in a quaint little smoking area sticks confidently in my mind alongside the late-night/early-morning talks, a smug little grin on its impish face.

Soon enough we decided to head home, and made it back to the student accommodation without incident - I barely avoided having my heel smashed by the ridiculously narrow turnstile contraption for a third time - where we spent more time simply enjoying each others company. She introduced me to several new things over that weekend, and as a perfect example, I should speak of music for a moment.

Now minions, you will remember that I have made my personal tastes in music abundantly clear over the years, and tend to cling to bands and artists for years (decades in some cases - Offspring, Less Than Jake, I'm looking at you) like a favourite teddy bear, rather than attempt to embrace new things. But this girl managed to not only get me to listen to new music, she managed to get me to enjoy it. I'll give you a few examples...

I've listened to a lot of Whitey since being introduced to him, and only just now found out he's bringing out a new album. I am unashamedly pleased.

I've been enjoying New Young Pony Club - they've got a sound that mostly reminds me of Metric and the Ting Tings, but, especially in this track, influences from older groups, particularly The Smiths.

Finally, I was given a lesson in spoken word. I have never listened to spoken word in anything other than an audiobook capacity, so this young lady was something of a surprise, especially when shown this clip from a Shakespeare-inspired exhibition of lyrical talent:

And then again, in a performance I was mesmerised by:

Kate Tempest is obviously passionate about what she does. I have to say, while I enjoyed listening to her work, I loved watching it even more. She's expressive, thoughtful and fearless; this is no more evident than the few times she looks straight at the camera. I found myself being drawn into Renegade than any of her other works, which includes the admittedly fucking excellent songs she's recorded with Sound of Rum.

~{@}~

~{@}~

Determined not to let the fact that this was my last day with Amanda go wasted, we spent the majority of the morning exchanging murmured sentiments and soft, lingering kisses. Eventually we decided to get up; a walk around Greenwich Park would put us both in a better mood before our inevitable parting. Amanda rose first, responding to my request for Marmite on toast with a will. The last of the pain de campagne loaf would go into making some excellent toast. I lounged on the bed, savouring her with my eyes and revelling in the simple joys of things like a warm bed and the prospect of Marmite on toast. I watched her run the breadknife through the rapidly thinning loaf, frowning in thought. "Mind your lovely fingers," I said, fully aware of how wet I sounded, (believe me, there were far more disgustingly mushy moments over the weekend - AND WE REVELLED IN THEM) and embarrassingly aware of my own multiple kitchen disasters. She responded with a laugh and an impish grin, before promptly slicing into her finger with the knife. Her yelp of pain jolted me off the bed, and without even thinking I began pulling on my shoes and grabbed my jacket, intent on getting plasters and antiseptic. She glared at her hands, gripping her finger tightly as she insisted that she was going to need more than plasters. After a quick look, I grabbed her keys and went down to the nearby store, where I had seen first aid kits on the shelf during our first night. Retrieving one, I returned to find Amanda dressed and clutching a bloody tissue to her hand. We swiftly made our way to an NHS Walk-In centre nearby, where Amanda attempted to get even the most tiny iota of useful information from a woman who, in what felt like an unbelievingly frustrating and cruel twist, can only be described thoroughly by directing you to this. For my part, I Loomed. It has been remarked upon that I am a distinctly good Loomer, and for once, I agree, though unfortunately the Desk Twat was utterly unfased by even my best glare. After nearly ten minutes of watching this monosyllabic cretin click at her computer, we were informed that there was a Medical Centre around fifteen minutes away.

Luckily the pair of us are particularly good at covering any distance on foot, and I clung to Amanda's side like a curiously ambulatory giant bearded limpet, alternately ensuring that she was okay and gritting my teeth at my own idiocy for suggesting toast for breakfast. We reached the Medical Centre with no real trouble, and headed up to the waiting room. Amanda gave her name to a far more friendly and helpful receptionist and we took a seat.

We spent almost half an hour in that waiting room, but I don't regret a second of it. We spent that thirty minutes leaning on one another and whispering, smiling and swapping secretive observations on the other waiting patients. This is what waiting rooms are for after all, once the papers have been read, the clock watched and the children's toys judged sadly too small to play with without breaking them. When the giant red LEDs finally pinged and showed Amanda's name, I took my leave to go for a cigarette, knowing that I would have simply been a third wheel in any consultation with a healthcare professional. Ten minutes later, Amanda joined me outside and I took a ridiculous amount of pleasure in simply helping her put her jacket on. A brief session of conciliatory hugging later and we decided to return home.

It was getting on for mid-afternoon by the time we arrived back at Amanda's room, and we quickly settled in for the Marmite on toast that had been denied us. It is here, my beloved minions, that I fear time began to flow at a terrible, quickened rate. We chose to approach Greenwich Park before sunset, and this turned out to be an excellent decision.

We huddled together on a bench, watching the seemingly endless array of over-excited dogs bounding about and eliciting delighted noises from Amanda and mirthful chuckles from me. We spoke again, almost effortlessly now, telling each other our highlights of the weekend and already planning for my next visit. I held onto her hands, taking care with her wounded finger, and reflected over how badly I wanted to stay. I'd had a truly incredible weekend and, sat there, stroking her fingers, I knew what the pink fog I'd been experiencing was.

We took a walk back home, slowing down to watch yet more over-enthusiastic canines haring around the park, and I began to ready my things. With a sense of detachment, I packed my bag. Amanda and I sat together on her bed, quietly talking and once again taking pleasure from each other's company. I could feel a tremble in my jaw while we discussed which train I should get, and I knew I was right. I wasn't sure if I could tell her, but I could feel the emotion simmering inside me, railing against its rusted, dusty cage. Was it too soon? Would you she feel the same? What would I do if she didn't? The mere thought of the terrible guilt I'd be weighed down with if I said the words and she responded with a hollow reply was maddening, terrifying - it sent a thrill of fear up my spine, something I hadn't felt since my arrival on Friday. I bottled the anxiety, cramming the fear down, down, hidden beneath the memories of the days past.

The time came. We set out, me with my bags and she wrapped once more in a warm coat and taking my arm in what felt like an utterly natural and comfortable way. The walk to the station was far too short, but gave me more than enough time to stew in my own neuroses while we continued planning my next visit. We passed the bridge, then the bookshop, then the local Wetherspoon's, and there was the station entrance. Amanda suddenly darted ahead, looking around with a worried expression, and smiled at me. I felt the tugging at my heart again.

"I want lift kisses," she said, grabbing at my arm as the lift doors opened.

The thirty seconds spent in that metal pod on my way down to the end of my weekend was, for lack of a better word, intense. The simmering had become a raging, furious storm of need that no longer railed but crashed pell-mell into the walls of its prison, roaring to be let out and have the whole thing resolved. The lift stopped, and the emotion broke free as I held onto the most amazing woman I have ever met as though to let go would suck all the colour and life from my world.

I kissed her and I said the words.

She replied.

We shared one last, sad, yearning smile and I backed out, turning on my heel as the rush of commuters hid Amanda from my sight. The unleashed emotion tore through me, suddenly joined by a monsoon of sadness, longing and a thrill of guilt - not for saying the words, but for having to leave now. Understand, minions, that this is something I could not control. I spent the entirety of the journey home nearly oblivious to my surroundings - in fact, the first train I boarded had been the wrong one. Tearing myself from my self-absorption, I regained my path and began the true return journey. It only occurred to me on my arrival back at Colchester that I hadn't even listened to any music on the way home. I spoke with Amanda again once I returned home. I won't tell you what the structure of that conversation was like, but suffice it to say that for all my neuroses, mercurial moods, bouts of spontaneous guilt and tendency to lean towards run-on sentences with no apparent ending, I am now one extremely happy man.

Now settle down, minions! There is much to plan and much to do! We have journeys to schedule and logistics to run - Frakt, fire up the squirrel converter and don't forget to juice the idea blender! Glub, roll me a cigarette and put the kettle on, damn your adorably beady eyes! And stop taunting Blechh, it's not his fault he gets all teary during soppy stories. ...really though, Blechh, do pull yourself together, you're making an awful mess.

And you! YES! You out there!

Thanks for stopping by. :)

Love,

Richard

"Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old"

I'm sorry to say that that time of the year has rolled around again, and if you can put up with my rambling for one more year, not only will I be impressed as all hell, I'll be sincerely grateful with it.

I'm going to begin by thanking my friends.

Certain of you were there for me four years ago, when it was so difficult I was on the verge of cracking up every single day, and for that I thank you. Others were kind enough to listen when I needed to talk, to offer what advice they could, and to help however they could. I thank you for that.

All of you have been good and patient and have managed to put up with a solid four years of my vigil and I have to say I never thought any of you would last that long. So for that, and for all the lesser, myriad annoyances and irritating features I've made you endure, I thank you.

Okay.

Now all of you know that if there's one thing I do way too much, it's talk. But I think you'll agree that, because of obvious, awkward reasons and personal ones, this is the one subject I just don't like to talk about it.

But if there was ever a day when I thought I could man up and actually discuss the subject, it's today.

Today would have been my Mum's 51st Birthday, and I'm sure somewhere she's cackling about the fact that she isn't going to get all wrinkly and slow after this point, bless her. Normally on Mum's birthday I try to drown my sorrows in alcohol or otherwise, and believe me, I'll definitely be intoxicating myself into a stupor after I finish writing, but this year I've decided that I should actually tell you what happened after Mum passed away.

..I really hope I just suck it up and set this blog to private at some point.

Anyway..

I haven't felt the same since Mum passed away. About anything.

After she was taken, I confess I let everything go slowly to hell. The cats, rest their souls, got older and more difficult, I fed them and cleaned them and changed their tray but, to me, they weren't.. they weren't really there anymore, d'you see? So eventually they all went to sleep, some in sadder ways than others, and I went on.

Alex, my then-girlfriend, was still there, but I just couldn't deal with her anymore. She could be lovely when she tried, but there was something in me that just snapped every time she spoke. At every look, every touch (extremely rare as they were), every breath, I felt something wrenching at me. We smoldered, faded and died as a couple. She moved on, but I had nowhere to move to.

That's how I've felt since it happened. I've got nothing to move on to.

Mum was my best friend, and fuck you if you're even thinking the word 'cliche', and she was, above all else, my Mum. She took care of me from day one, devoted in that way that only mothers can be.

The rest of my family just seemed to vanish from my viewpoint. They were around, of course. I really, really couldn't have gotten anywhere without my Auntie Gill, Dad, Lou, Uncle Jimmy, and Big Rich. But they.. I just forgot about them half the time. Still do, as a matter of fact. When Mum was here they were very much real and very much there, at the end of a phone or in person every other week or so. I used to love visiting them, even if my sour demeanour indicated otherwise.

I forgot birthdays, which in itself isn't much of a thing (those who have seen my Big Birthday List on my kitchen cupboard door will understand), but now they were just gone. Blips on the radar, barely. Everything was dead, the world had ended, what was beloved by me was just fucking TAKEN like what she wanted didn't even matter, precious fucking God didn't step in at any point to set things right. Even shouting at people wasn't working. Nothing worked, Mum wasn't here for me to complain to about it.. All I really feel is left for me is waiting to fall in front of a bus. Or getting mauled to death by a low-flying mortgage. Maybe both at once. I just feel so fucking old.

And who else is going to put up with me? I mean, I know people usually tolerate my presence, but since Mum passed away I feel like the only person who ever really liked me, not just tolerated me or put up with me, is gone. Anytime I speak to anyone now, ANYONE, I just get the impression that the only reason they haven't told me to fuck off is because they feel sorry for me or they feel some obligation, or they've got no-one else to talk to, you know?

Mum actually WANTED to speak to me, whether it be to find out what I was thinking, what I wanted for dinner, whether she should wear the good earrings or not, what was on telly, where did I put the bloody remote, or could I make her a cup of tea..

..shit..

Okay, look, I'm gonna get the fuck out of here while I can still see and start hitting the vodka and drugs. Don't worry, I'm well aware of my limits.

The point of this self-deprecating rant was actually something positive, though you might not be able to tell that by my sudden spiral into uselessness, which is:

You really, really, REALLY don't know what you've got 'til it's gone, and fuck those jaded bastards who take this sort of thing in their stride or wuss out because they think it's cliched.

Do me one small favour and I promise I'll leave you guys alone for ages. If you can, just give your Mum a bell and see how she's doing, yeah? If not, give your old man a shout. No need to say hi for me, say hi for yourself instead. Just make sure they're okay.

Odsox.

"You are talking ABSOLUTE PEARS! ~~!"

Back again, back from the glorious golden days of the Reading Festival 2008.

Back at work.. back at home.. alone..

Alright, so I couldn't bring myself to write an Epic Festival Blog. Boo hoo, big fail. There are plenty of reasons, mind you.

A) I spent most of the festival in various degrees of intoxication.

B) Taking notes while there would have REALLY REALLY subtracted from the overall fun of the thing.

C) I don't have access to The Quote Book, which has the most amusing quotes from each Reading Festival in.

D) I spent most of the festival in various degrees of intoxication.

E) It's not like more than three people would read it anyway.

F) I SPENT MOST OF READING IN VARIOUS DEGREES OF INTOXICATION.

So instead I've decided to do what I do best: ramble!

Let’s start with some basics, shall we? I’m afraid the only examples of this year’s line-up poster I’ve been able to find have had that bloody ‘BUY NEXT YEAR’S TICKETS FOR THIS YEAR’S PRICES, FAGNUB LOL!!!!11’ thing taped over the front, so I’ve brought my line-up flyer into work. Here you go:



If you didn’t know, the big hype about this year was Friday’s headliners, Rage Against the Machine. They haven’t been seen as a band for something like eight years, so this was one seriously huge selling point for Festival Republic (the sponsors who took over from Carling and fucking BOTCHED it, I’ll rant more later), along with Sunday night’s headliners, the ever-awesome Metallica! Of course, ever the difficult one, I only really wanted to see Less Than Jake (greatest party band EVAR). Everything musical was downhill from there for me.

But we don’t do serious music reviews or news here at the Book of Odsox; just weird stuff and inane observations. And bitter ranting, of course. ;D

Now I hate going anywhere populated by myself. I don't know why, I just prefer to have an extra body there with me (probably to shove in front of oncoming crazed traffic) so how about a roll-call? In alphabetical order, too. These are the magnificent bastards who attended the festival and put up with me for five whole days:



Adam – Dumb, funny, guitarist, technically a G-list celebrity. Recently grew a Stellios-the-Paedophile beard.



Andy – Metal muso, likes to drink. Has ‘Andy Parties’ if you don’t keep an eye on him. This involves his disappearing for up to two hours then returning UNBELIEVABLY drunk.



Becky – A Lady, other half of Steve and acquaintance of James.



Bex – Spent a worrying amount of time in her tent every morning and didn’t get ruined enough! Quotes Black Books like a champion though.



Gem – The Duchess of the Festival, surrounded herself with more narcotics than Tony fucking Montana and sold balloons to kids.



Holly – Supermuso, had a bit of a freak out and threatened to rape one of the weird-looking boy stewards. (also did all the drugs)



Jam – Prince of jibbing, drummer. Drunk a lot of the boozes and wore the biggest pair of sunglasses ever. Also has a nifty MP3CD player.


James – A Gentleman who I have met previously (apparently)



Justin – Little J or Dustbin! My festival wingman and he who doth roll awesome herbal cigarettes. A fellow survivor of The Queue.



Matt – The Gay. Bless him, Matt represents Essex’ finest contribution to the Wrong’un list. (shamelesspromotion) Also opening up a new shop in Ipswich named Maraschino’s.



Mo – Man of the Match. This king of dudes got more messed up than anyone and even managed to terrify the Skins rejects who had camped a bit too close for our liking. Brilliant.



Sam – Another drummer who had a disgusting amount of effort and cheerfulness in him. Proper funny, though, and takes a seriously amusing picture.



Steve – A Gentleman, other half of Becky and acquaintance of James.



Richard - Dat’s me!

Before we go any further, I must express that at any point this blog could simply break down and stop. I’m writing about an entire five-day mash-up here, so it could go horribly wrong.

WEDNESDAY – “Sex Crime Wednesday!”

We began our journey (that’s Little J or Justin or Dustbin, depending on who’s talking to him, and I) at Colchester North Station at about 06:30 Wednesday morning, hopping on the train for the ridiculous sum of £32. Yes, Wednesday. If you get to the festival on Wednesday you can get in early for an extra tenner, plus we wanted to get a good spot.

Little did we know what was waiting for us.

The actual journey to Reading was uneventful and easy; we arrived a little after nine o’clock and started doing The Trudge from Reading station to the festival site on the Rivermead Leisure Area, lugging our bags and tent along with us. We spied the end of the queue fairly quickly as we rounded the corner by The Gorges gastropub and crossed the road by the petrol station. It was the work of a moment to dive on the end, enquire as to whether it was the right queue, then to start waiting.

Now a lot of things happened after we joined that queue. As we reached the end of the long line stretching down the road and headed into the main queueing area, we were treated to a delightful image and the first indication that Festival Republic was intent on fucking it all up for us. I’ll be honest with you, it’s difficult for me to talk about The Queue without descending into extreme profanity, shouting and flailing my arms violently. It was a bit like ‘nam. If you weren’t there, you’ll never really understand.

What was gathered in front of the Entrance sign wasn’t really a queue so much as a mob. Hundreds and hundreds of people gathered in front of this metal gate, being watched by daylgo-jacketed Scottish security guards (unsure as to why Reading’s security is usually made up of angry scots - and that’s not a generalisation; the fellows and ladies who guard Reading are usually angry people who happen to be Scottish!) and herded together like beautiful, tattooed, gum-chewing cattle.

I have reduced the 13-hour (YES 13 HOURS DON'T GET ME STARTED) saga of The Queue to a few highlights and low points, so as to spare my aching soul:

Boston.

Boston was an American fellow who thought he was a stand-up comedian, and while he held his own against the occasional ‘Shut up, yank!’ heckler, he wasn’t very good. And he never gave us any of his beer, the bastard. Yum-Yum got a beer, and he was only offering sexual favours. We had witty commentary and sweary ranting!

Legendary Graham.

About fifteen metres away from the Entrance, we noticed a sudden increase in people chanting, ‘Push him! Push him!’ and rubbernecked around to investigate. On a small hill to one side of the entrance, some poor schmuck had passed out drunk on his bag and was lying at the top of the hill with one very cheeky-looking security guard standing behind him, one foot held above Graham’s back. A quick nudge sent poor Graham tumbling down a few feet before he gained his bearings. The crowd suddenly went mad for entertainment (anything to relieve the soul-crushing boredom of The Queue) and proceeded to chant Graham into doing several very silly things such as stripping, dancing and downing booze, though he seemed quite pleased with all the attention.

‘Let’s Go Murphys!’

Every half an hour or so we heard someone doing the Dropkick Murphys chant. It always got a response, either slack or enthusiastic, but it always got a response.

Angry Mob.

After queuing for approximately ten hours we saw the little box where THREE (count ‘em) people were trying to serve the now THOUSANDS of people queuing. After the crowd began to rally a bit, a chant of ‘LET US IN! LET US IN!’ was taken up, followed by railing at the security guards, flinging fences over, throwing apples at the Box Offices and generally being seriously pissed off. The excitement died down a bit though, what with everyone realising the futility of it all and succumbing to the miasma of despair.

‘Would you guys like some Haribo?’

My personal favourite, this. We’d been in The Queue for approximately twelve hours by this point. We’d been crushed, pushed, sworn at, gotten spattered with beer and water, been driven nearly insane by the rate of movement (one metre every forty-five minutes with sporadic variation) and gotten a glimpse of horror when the crowd squashed itself against the metal fencing to beg for water from the guards, so we weren’t in a spectacularly brilliant mood. There wasn’t enough room to skin up, we’d taken the easy route and decided not to bring any alcohol with us, and even if I’d brought it with me I don’t think I would have risked my Nintendo DS in that crowd.

So when the pretty young lady in the green hoodie turned around with a smile and asked if we’d like some Haribo, the break from the depression of the Queue was like a happy beam of light in a cloud of despair. That was the best damn jelly heart I’ve ever eaten. She introduced herself as Heidi, and from that point things got a bit better.

It was starting to get dark, and after sending Little J out to do a quick reccy, we discovered that there was another, MUCH FASTER line that had opened up just twenty metres behind us. Needless to say, we joined it pretty sharpish. This was an amazing relief from the misery of The Queue. There was room to swing a cat (and more importantly, skin up!) and we soon got down to friendly, chatty, smoky banter with the few people around us, including young Heidi, who exceeded all expectations by revealing a pack of shortbread biscuits OM NOM NOM NOM and being a cheerful smoker herself!

And eventually, we arrived at the Wristband Exchange. I cannot express the joy that flooded through me when the lady behind the stall clamped the metal lock down onto the ‘READING WEEKEND 08’ fabric wristband around my left arm. After that it was a case of finding the campsite, setting up and getting wasted, which we did with abandon.

THURSDAY – “RAPE YOU!”

Beer for breakfast OHYEH, that and a herbal cigarette. And pleading with the others not to do any more classy stuff before noon. Don’t know why I bother, they’re shameless and disgraceful creatures. I hope they never change. :D

About an hour after I’d joined the campsite for the morning, Holly emerged from her tent. Now Holly isn’t exactly what you’d call a morning person, much less a people person (by the standard definition, anyway), so when her arrival coincided with the appearance of two festival Greenies (which is how I shall refer to ‘them buggers that give you bags and tell you to pick up your rubbish so you can get a beer’, it was fairly obvious that she was going to Happen to them.

But not before Mo beat her to it! After explaining the idea to young Mo, the idea being that you fill up a bag with cans, take it to the stewards and get a beer OR fill up a bag with squashed cans and get three beers, Mo had them explain it again.

And again.

And again.

All the while, the male Greenie, who was a lanky, blonde, effeminate type, was trying weakly to explain the concept to Holly, who is above all else a festival veteran and definitely knew more than he did about the entire shebang. Holly’s responses were growing more and more vitriolic, culminating in a yelled response to an innocent question.

The blonde Greenie (whose companion was STILL attempting to slake Mo’s thirst for knowledge on the intricacies of beer-can collecting) asked, ‘Do you know how you can get more money?’, to which Holly’s response was swift and loud.

‘RAPE YOU!’

Holly assures me that she’d meant to shout ‘mug you’, but what with having only just woken up, she wasn’t fully in gear.

Needless to say the Greenies cleared off shortly after that.

I was also forced on an Epic Journey to Tescos this day, accompanied by a stoic (and classy) Gem and Mo, because I'd brought everything with me except booze, bog roll and t-shirts.

WE WENT ON A BOAT. IT WAS AWESOME.

The double-decker boat the festival organisers had commissioned to shuttle festival-goers between campsites and town was a raggedy old thing which had all of its furniture and accessories shuffled away and replaced by a top-deck DJ, shedloads of speakers and a dancefloor on the lower deck! It was too early to be dancing, however, so we stood at the fore watching the army of swans along the Thames and shouting at people on the riverbank. My companions weren't really in any state to be in civilised company, as I found out when I left them on guard by my shopping trolley while I nipped back and got some extra crap, only to find them wailing 'There you are! Never leave us again! It went wrong without you!' on my return.

We splurged on a taxi back to the festival, which was a fantastic idea, even if I do say so myself.

As I recall, the rest of Thursday consisted of the simple joys that come with Festivals, ie getting completely wasted before noon (oh yes, we were) and messing about at the campsite before all them other buggers turned up. It was great. And there were many.. many.. balloons.

For the unenlightened among you, balloons are what I like to think of as fun drugs. Now don’t take that the wrong way, I’m as against the use of heavy narcotics or excessive use of any narcotic like any sane person.

But balloons are fun, AS LONG AS THEY’RE TAKEN PROPERLY.

Thursday was also the day Adam and Andy arrived to fulfil our Essex quota and set up their pop-up tent, the cheeky sods. Their arrival was somewhat epic, seeing as they got drunk over the course of five hours while searching for the correct campsite.

I think six or so of us were seated around the campsite, just chilling. All of a sudden, from off in the distance, we heard a noise..

“Ooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!”

Being Essex-in-the-vein, both myself and Gemma instantly responded.

“OOOOOOOOIIIIIIIII!!!”

We were rewarded with another questing call.

“Oooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiii!!!”

This time the whole camp joined in.

“OOOOOOOOOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!”

And then Adam strolled around a tent, lugging his packed up tent and an open can of Carlsberg to raucous applause and many sweary greetings. That Essex Introduction was probably one of my favourite festival moments ever (though as I found out recently, it turns out the ORIGINAL OI wasn't actually Adam. ..nevermind, he stole it pretty well!)

As I recall, the rest of that Thursday ended up devolving into another giant mash-up, although many of us got to bed early for bands the next day! EEEEE!

PART THREE: FRIDAY – “Rage who?”

Okay, now what you'll need to understand here is that a LOT of the actual festival day time (Friday, Saturday, Sunday) was devoted to watching and listening to bands, and because I don't trust myself to do music reviews properly (I just LOVE music, I don't LIVE it) the following entries might be a bit garbled or short.

Everyone was up bright and early on Friday, well, either that or they just hadn't slept, and most of the campsite was raring to go. I started my day as I usually do when at festivals, with a beer and a herbal cigarette, and was very pleased to see most of the others doing something similar.

One of the greatest things about Reading is the way everyone gathers together in the camp and just talks for ages. We'd gotten a couple of programmes and timetables between us, as well as downloaded Clash Finders from the online festival forums, so the air was full of profanity, smoke and IWANNASEE sentences. No-one seemed too bothered about Anti-Flag's first showing (they played twice on Friday!) or any bands until The Loved Ones on the Radio 1 Lock-Up Stage. Best stage EVAR by the way, the Lock-Up is the usual haunt of the punk and serious rock bands, with some metal or just weirdness mixed in for variation. TLO played amazingly well and brought a real burst of energy on stage with them, especially the lead singer. We were standing off to the side of the tent with a good view of the stage, and set up a minicamp where Gem held court, even going so far as to begin her odd habit of 'nesting'.

I trundled off to do a food (which I believe I eventually gave up on) and came back for the last part of Dizzee Rascal's set. Man but that dude knows how to work a crowd! Normally one would think that a 'ip-'op artist like Dizzee would be bottled or booed, but he got an awesome response from the main stage and got the crowd jumping. Most of us reconvened at the Main Stage to watch Serj Tankian, and he started out okay, but seeing as my memory gets a bit.. I'll be honest, completely fucking blank at that stage, I'll assume he turned out to be a bit shit and we ended up getting wasted instead.

There was a lot of mucking about in the line-up over the weekend, and I'd been told earlier that Less Than Jake (Friday's Lock-Up Stage headliners) had been dropped to second place so Pennywise were going to be on last. It was a bit of a kick in the nuts, but hey, it meant I got to see LTJ earlier, right?

Anyway, Goldfinger were the next band I saw, and they were great. Trumpets and guitars, if you've never heard any Goldfinger, I highly recommend you downlo- I mean legitimately acquire their back catalogue. They were good fun, and here's a little hint of the sense of community and eclectic taste you'll find at Reading: During their set, Goldfinger played one of their most well-recognised songs, Superman. I was stood near the back with a good view, behind a little skinhead chavvy fellow in a Nike hoodie and tracksuit bottoms (who we will call Terry) and a lanky goth fellow stood next to him looking miserable (and we'll call him Dave). About halfway through Superman, I noticed Terry bobbing his head and singing all the words with a big grin. Dave looked a bit worried, and he caught Terry's eye. Oho, I thought, this should be good. Then, with an even bigger grin, Terry says to Dave (or at least mouthed the words, it was VERY loud in that tent), 'You don't know this one? Oh mate! It's brilliant!'.

You know, that cheered me up immensely. I was already quite cheery, but that little snippet really made my day. Goldfinger closed with the all-German version of Nena's 99 Red Ballooons, which was spectacular even though I was half-mumbling along and embarassing myself.

Next up.. Pennywise!? What the..

Yes, it turned out that the rumour about LTJ dropping a place was just that. I was surprised but also very very pleased, so much so that I enjoyed all of the politico-punk band's set, even shouting out for a few requested tracks before the end (listen to Greed, it's excellent). The band themselves seemed a tad bit lacklustre, a bit too serious, although that may have been just my opinion. Anyway, they played really well and closed efficiently.

ON TO THE JAKE.

People began pouring out of the tent, off to the Main Stage to see Rage Against the Machine. More fool them (incidentally, RATM refused to allow any of their gig to be televised. That’ll show Thatcher, right kids?!). Gem, Adam and I (I can't remember who else stayed because we were all classy at the time - what a good idea!) marched forward into the scrum, ending up about five people away from the barriers. So good SOOOOO GOOD. Adam, who like myself recently purchased LTJ's new album, LTJ GNV FLA, which is an abbreviation of the band's hometown of Gainesville Florida, was as excited as Gem and I, and we were chatting and discussing what songs we thought they'd play from the new set and which old numbers they'd go for. I was desperate to hear Does the Lion City Still Roar?, Handshake Meet Pokerface and Golden Age of My Negativity from the new album, and to be honest anything they played would have been amazing.

A sudden blare of trumpets and the opening to Lion City.. heralded the band’s arrival and they leaped onto the stage, resplendent in the spotlights. Gem handed us glowsticks and we set about skanking as hard as possible.

As per usual, LTJ played a blinding set, interspersing their unbelievably catchy sound with stupid jokes and ridiculous dress-up games. I managed to make eye contact once or twice, which I’ll admit made my inner fanboy happy in the scrotal region. The Jake were on top form, their crowd of rabid fans laughing and happy in the intimacy of the Lock-Up Stage. They stormed through a couple of new numbers, and certainly surprised me by playing old tunes Dopeman and How’s My Driving, Doug Hastings?. Only semi-mainstream hit All My Best Friends Are Metalheads was devoted to Rage Against The Machine, whose crowd had stretched all the way to the back of the Lock-Up Stage! LTJ encourage crowd participation at their gigs, one of the many reasons they’re just so much fun to watch, and hauled a couple of awkward-looking teens on stage to dance.

To be honest, the gig was too good to describe without using wild gesticulation and raised voices, but the band brought their set to a thunderous close with the song that brought them millions of fans in the mid-noughties, rock-club hit Gainesville, Rock City, again named after their hometown.

After the band closed up and filtered off stage, we lingered for a while, still classy and fiddling with glowsticks, chanting along with a small crowd for an encore.

Sadly there was no encore, but that performance was the best I saw all weekend, and (musically at least) it was all downhill for me afterwards.

SATURDAY: “I can’t even take it back ‘cause it’s full of bloody spoons!”

Bloody hell but it was hot Saturday morning. I emerged from my ten at about tennish, to find Adam passed out in one of the campsite chairs wearing about four layers of clothing and a blanket. Evidently he’d gotten even classier after I went to bed Friday night. The majority of Saturday morning, long associated with the phrase, ‘Shit Indie Day’, was spent lazing around the campsite because there are never any decent bands on before about five o’clock. However, several members of the group left to go and see new fish Random Hand open up the Lock-Up Stage, as well as Hi-Fi Hand Grenades who, I’m assured, are rather good.

I for one didn’t give a toss for any of the bands on before Flogging Molly, an awesome Irish punk band who I must have seen going on eight times now. I seem to recall slumping in my chair with a can of beer and a herbal cigarette again, when young Jam emerged with his MP3 player and proceeded to alter my views on bands I’ve never listened to.

Ever heard of Frank Turner? He used to be the frontman for a band called Million Dead (cheery title, isn’t it?) but became a solo artist a little while ago. It turns out that he’s one of the best singer-songwriters EVER. Jam, Mo, Dustbin, Gem (I think), the still comatose Adam and I did some serious chillaxing that morning. Eventually the time for bands rolled around, and after a delightfully short trip to the arena (probably the best recurring thing about the entire festival… although the beer was good, TUBORG FTW) we, that is to say Gem, Dustbin and I, got to the Lock-Up Stage just in time. We set up another of our impressive minicamps and got down to listening to some Oirish Punk Rawk. Thanks to the heat, mind you, I ended up blanking out for most of the afternoon, and honestly can’t remember anything after about halfway through the Flogging Molly gig.

Which implies that it was a brilliant night, surely.

Alright, alright, I vaguely recall heading over to White Campsite at some point, which involved a lot of walking and.. oh yes! That’s what was wrong! I was having a bit of a weird night myself, I remember everyone else being classy or drunk, but there was something strange about that one for me. I wasn’t having enough fun. We picked up some of Gem’s balloons and we WENT ON A BOAT AGAIN! Man did I love going on the boat.

SUNDAY – “METALLICA SUNDAY!”

This was it. Sunday. The final day of the festival. Fuck but the time flies past at Reading. This was New Year’s Eve for a few of us, me included, so tonight was going to have to be messy as anything.

But first - !

Sunday morning started out as being a fairly dour affair, what with everyone realising that it was the final day, but the atmosphere soon picked up as most of us remembered that the selling point of Sunday was the fact that everyone gets beyond ruined after all the bands finish. We got off to a good start after that, getting through several beers and other, more dubious drinks (props to Gem’s dad for gifting us with two bottles of his homemade wine – lovely stuff if you don’t mind stripping all the enamel off of your teeth) along with several balloons. If I recall, most of the camp was pretty classy before noon. We’d decided to head in to the arena early and set up camp at the main stage, in our time-honoured Sunday tradition. We made a rather impressive set this year, with something like ten festival chairs, a couple of blankets doing the rounds, plenty of booze, herbal cigarettes and classy people.

First up on our personal bill was the Plain White T’s, who only needed to play Delilah so that Gem could have a stoner-moment, apparently. I vaguely recall them being somewhat interesting to listen to, albeit a bit boring. Still, the sound wasn’t too good and I was very distracted by my sketchbook.

The Dropkick Murphys were up next and they came out the way they always do, opening their set with Sinead O’Connor and the Chieftains’ version of Foggy Dew, which is one of my favourite songs at the moment. What with the state of affairs being incredibly classy amongst our little circle, all I can really remember about most of the gig was that it was really good and everyone was enjoying themselves.

Around about here we had something of a schism in the group, which had split up earlier. Young Jam, along with Mo, Holly, Matt and several of the others, had gorn orf to the right hand side of the stage and set up their minicamp between the big view screen toward the back of the crowd (provided for people who for various reasons can’t get to the front) and the far side of the crowd. After some debate, which mainly consisted of ‘I don’t wanna move, I’m too wasted’ and then broke down into ‘Okay, okay, but you first’, our little group sidled over to join the others.

This turned out to be a brilliant idea.

As the group gelled together again, the next few hours became a cheerful, overly happy blur. We met up with our festival companion from the past few years, a mysterious fellow only ever known as Hash Fudge Man. And that’s true, by the way. Because we set up our minicamp in virtually the same place every year for the past five years, HFM naturally gravitates toward our position because he knows what good customers we are. We’ve honestly never found out his name. This year he provided us with plentiful bounty and stayed for a quick chat before bidding us another very fond farewell and promising to meet up with us again next year. Hash Fudge Man is one of the constantly brilliant moments of the festival.

We’d formed a great, two-row semicircle by this point and as Feeder took to the stage there were plenty of herbal cigarettes making the rounds.

I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Feeder, or even seen them live. They’re a firm festival favourite though, seeing as they play just about every festival EVERY BLOODY YEAR.

This shouldn’t be held against them, however, rather it should be praised as one of their virtues.

Thanks to being passed a particularly herbal cigarette during the idle of the set, young Mo left the rest of the festival behind for a while as he had a Moment. Festival Moments are a very special thing, and should be savoured by anyone who manages to have one. Mo looked like he was having a fantastic time, chewing his face and spacing out, singing along.

Now, according to the line up oop thur ^^^ Slipknot were on after Feeder, which would have been pretty bad for me, following up mellowish indie rock with shouty hardcore death metal and a bunch of twats in masks, but instead we were treated to a band who’d originally been billed as first up; Mindless Self Indulgence. Fronted by a fellow who refers to himself as Jimmy Urine, I can only sum up their live performance one way.

It was complete bollocks. They were noisy rather than musical, looked as though they were trying far too hard with their make up and fancy outfits and elaborate hair, and Mr. Urine was a prize prick for the entire set. I’ve never seen such a total wanker fronting a band before and I’ve seen 50 Cent.

So that was an hour or so of getting REALLY classy because the music was too awful to stand.

(as a side note, I would like to point out that MSI’s recorded albums are really quite good; it’s just their live stuff that appears to be shite)

About midway through their set, however, I was treated to a very nice egotistic moment when my sketchbook was borrowed by two completely wasted young ladies, probably jailbait, and stared at. I was doodling in Gem’s notebook at this point (she’d been writing something in mine, see what we did there?), so I listened to the girls making oohs and ahs, interspersing their mumbling with the occasional ‘WHOAH THAT’S NUTS’ or ‘Eeeeuuuurrrgh, what’s THAT?’ and was very, very pleased when they returned the book, telling me what an amazing collection it was. I can’t say I valued their opinion too much, what with them being fucked on goodness knows what at the time, but it’s always nice to receive a compliment, innit?

After the debacle of Mindless Self Indulgence, the entire crowd had suddenly gotten an awful lot bigger, and as the banner was drawn up at the back of the Main Stage, I realised why.

Have you ever heard of Tenacious D?

That’s right, Tenacious D. And their set was a STORMER. I really can’t describe how brilliant it was, but I will give you a couple of buzzword highlights.

“God damn it, Kyle, I told you we were dressing as WIZARDS!!” – Jack Black in a cloak, on guitarist Kyle Gass’ cartoon lizard costume.

THE METAL!!!

A brilliant reprise of the Rock Off versus the Devil from the climax of the band’s infamous comedy musical, Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny, complete with snappily-dressed Satan.

“Man, that’s a slow-ass train. Let’s rock that train, speed the fucker up. Ready?” – Jack Black, shortly before leading the band in an amazing impromptu rock song aimed AT the train which passed by the festival very, very slowly.

Eventually The D closed their set with arguably their most well-recognised song, Tribute, which of course EVERYONE sang along with. The lights stopped whirling and the between-set videos fired up on the gigantic screens flanking the stage. As the crowd somehow became even more tightly-packed and agitated,the subject of discussion moved on: Metallica were on next.

I’ve seen Metallica before. I saw them a couple of years ago, headlining on Sunday, just like this year. They were awesome then, and it was highly likely they were going to be awesome this evening.

But I wouldn’t really know because I buggered off about three songs in!

AHAHAHAHAHA! XD

That’s right! My feet were KILLING me from all the walking of the weekend so I decided I’d rather go back to the campsite and get really REALLY ruined for the final night’s festivities rather than hang around, watch a band who I admittedly like but don’t by any means love and then get caught in the utter crush that accompanies Sunday night’s arena evacuation.

Back at the campsite we made FIRE! Well, Justin made fire and I admired the flames and kept ‘em fuelled while toying with the edges of the firepit using my shoe.

And then we got really classy.

At about 2AM, Gem, Mo and I decided that we should go on a final wander in order to flog as many of Gem’s remaining balloons as possible. While we suffered an EPIC FAIL in that department, we did nonetheless have an awesome wander. Mo and I Happened to several unfortunates, and I had the forethought to take my “I HATE IT HERE.” Satchel with me, loaded down with spare beers.

Awesome.

We saw many amusing sights on that wander. We ran into and chatted to groups of people far, FAR more wasted than us, made snide remarks about security (because let’s face it: they might do a good job but they’ve come to expect it) and got completely terrified by some of the other campers.

Hm? Terrified, yes! Honestly got a bit sketchy at one point during the wander, as we arrived in Green Camp only to discover that the fuckers had gone tribal!

We rounded the corner into Green, having heard the massive clamour set up by a ton of people bashing metal onto metal indiscriminately, and were met by the utterly devastated Green Toilets, which sat forlornly in a cesspool of mud and less savoury substances, it’s doors and frame wrecked and warped by fire and destruction. A nearby campfire lit the scene as sixty or so people swung bits of toilet at a pile of refuse, making what had sounded like tribal drumming when a mile or so away but up close resembled nothing less than full-on noise. These people were mud-stained, wearing scraps of festival clothing, some of them wore dayglo paint or stupid hats, but all of them were hooting and shouting while slamming metal onto metal.

We made our way past fairly quickly and trotted back to the relative safety of Yellow Camp and our campsite, where Mo proceeded to Happen to just about everyone, including the camp of twelve-year old Skins rejects that, according to some of our lot, had access to far classier bitz than what would have been considered the norm for a gang of adolescent indie kids. The drinking went on until the wee hours, or so I’m told. At one stage we were treated to a satosfying BOOM in the distance, and everyone shot out of their chairs like meerkats to inspect the orange glow off to the South. The toilets were on fire. And quite impressive they were too.

I threw in my towel at the reasonable time of 4AM, with the aim of being up and packed by maybe eight the next day.

BOOO BOOOO WRONG BOOOO

The next morning was spent tidying up the tent, getting as classy as possible before having to go home (well, those of us who didn’t need to drive, anyway) and trying not to break down in tears because we were forced to go home.

So after wishing everyone a Happy New Year, I followed young Dustbin and our impromptu chauffeur, Adam, back to the White Camp car park, in order to begin the long, lazy journey home.

It was a good one, and by far the longest amount of time I’ve spent chatting to Adam for about three months, which was good fun. We listened to a shedload of music while young Justin lazed on the backseat, and only interrupted our homeward trek for the traditional stop at South Mimms services, and Burger King OM NOM NOM NOM!

And here I am.


Obviously I’ve missed out an absolute shedload of information and it’s highly likely that some of my info is messed up as it is. I’ll excuse myself from too much responsibility by mentioning once again that I was VERY VERY RUINED for most of the weekend.

Right, now I’m completely bloody knackered, so I’m going to finish my coffee and get back to work, if you’d be so kind as to let me rest my aching fingers.






























Well go on, bugger off!

Love, Odsox.

"Ladies and gentlemen.. Fasten your seatbelts."

NURH-NURH-NUH-NURNURNUR-NURH-NURH-NURH-NURH! (Pendulum: Fasten Your Seatbelt)

Do you know what’s happening over the coming weekend? No?

Well you’re being deprived.

For the next five days, I am going to be in Reading (U.K.) for the [url=http://www.readingfestival.com]Carling Festival[/url].

I’ll be enjoying the weather, the atmosphere and an absolute [url=http://www.readingfestival.com/lineup/index.aspx]SHEDLOAD[/url] of live music. A few of my friends are going, and the rest of our Colchestrian Camp will be made up of people who can tolerate my presence, so I should be okay.

Our mission?

BOOZE. BANDS. FUN. SUN.

I thought it best to let you know now, just in case I don’t make it back. It’s going to get messy, and I fully expect to be Changed when (read: if) I return. I’ll be putting my Character/Personality Reboot into action while I’m there; attempting to reclaim the angry-looking-dude-who-doesn’t-talk-much persona that was mine so many years ago, before I became the chatty-bastard-who-just-complains. This could go horribly wrong, but Reading is the kind of place one likes to try weird things.

LOCK AND LOAD, PEOPLE! IT’S FESTIVAL TIME AGAIN!

Love,

Odsox.

"Last time I sent someone down to talk you nailed him to the cross!"

31-07-08

IT’S RAINING!!

Like, PROPER raining too! Some dude just came in from a bus journey drenched to the skin! xD He had to borrow spare clothes from the rest of the department – currently he’s wrapped up in a lady’s cardigan! AHAHAHAHAH!

I for one have been immensely cheered by the rain, it’s now very cool in the office as a result and my hay fever is nonexistent thanks to any pollen being bashed down by all the falling water. We even had a couple of thunder rolls and lightning strikes a little while ago!

Wonderful.

Anyway, I was listening to the raydlio last night, and on a whim decided to listen to Radio 1’s Colin Murray, who tends to play just about anything he can get his hands on, including some really tripped-out alternative music as well as the standard listener-magnet tracks. Last night he was on a ‘songs with brackets in their titles’ kick, the list of which contained some rather awesome numbers I haven’t heard in a while. Chief among them were ‘Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t Have Fallen In Love With)’ by the Buzzcocks, ‘Drawing (Rings Around the World)’ by Super Furry Animals and the utterly brilliant ‘(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party)’ by the Beastie Boys.

And all that aside, I heard a song that has been rolling around the corners of my brain since I heard it. I honestly can’t describe this song, but it’s great. If you get a chance, downl- sorry, ahem, ‘legitimately acquire’ Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip – ‘A Letter From God to Man’, it’s the dog’s wotsits.

BACK TO WORK UGH

~ Love, Odsox.

P.S. Just an update on the rain – The females are now TERRIFIED to go out of the building because there’s a three-inch deep mini-lake between the entrance and the car park! Bloody wimps! xD

"Directive?"

I went to see Wall-E with Gem last night, and instead of launching into a huge raving review, I'm gonna say

YOU HAVE TO SEE IT YOUR LIFE DEPENDS UPON IT

And leave it at that.

Also, I may have fallen a little bit in love with the (technically) female lead, EVE. You'll understand when you see her in action.

So, the pure, unbridled brilliance that was Wall-E really made my night. The guys at work were kind enough to let me leave early, Gem and I snuck miniature bottles of Jack Daniels into the theeyaytah and dumped 'em in our Big-Glug Diet Cokes (heaven!) and that really helped! Also, I've found a kindred cinema spirit in young Gem in that aside from me, she's the only person I've met who intentionally sits front-row-centre at the pictures BECAUSE WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR NECK WHEN THE SCREEN'S THIS BIG and we actually got a laugh and a smiley conversation from the pretty ticketmistress when we started raving about how being front and centre is the best.

Well think about it, the screen's MASSIVE when you're that close, there's no-one sitting in front of you to get in your way, AND you can take your shoes off, stretch your legs out and slump comfortably into your chair, thus avoiding potential neck-ache! Plus, you don't have to fiddle and fumble for anything you've brought with you because you've got the entire floor to use!

Also, Gem pointed out that when you're in the front (and the only people at the front, like we were) you can pretend the rest of the cinema doesn't exist! It's just you, the screen and EVE..

..she was lovely. For a robot, of course.

Right, I'm going to go and see if anyone'll accept blood as payment for a Carling Festival ticket.

Have a nice day!

P.S. If anyone knows how many souls it would cost me to get a pair of these badboys, let me know!