proper English twit.

Well I'm back from Benacissim and beyond.

I excitedly returned to the throngs of the internet to note that my last post- informing you of my impending jaunt to Spain to soak in the sites, sounds and smell of the Benacissim festival didn't work. Ho hum. (though I note it has since appeared after posting this blog?)

It was a great little holiday for us all and we saw some great and not so great bands too, notably in the 'not-so-great' section live Julain Cassablanca's little beat combo-they were effing awful! Sadly my time out there was somewhat blighted with a long list of ailments I endured and I almost turned into a Woody Allen esq sniveling hypochondriac if it wasn't for the persistent reassurances from my nearest and dearest to "stop effing moaning".

I also write with a heavy heart that I can no longer describe myself as a sun cream Nazi, after succumbing the heat of the sun myself. Despite taking the utmost precautions to ensure that I arrived home as pale and white as ever, I did get burned and it was as an unpleasant experience as I remembered it to be. The hardest part to take was on the particular day in question, my body was smeared in Factor 30 sun cream and with the exception of a dip in the sea, I remained under the shade of a parasol, yet my legs- mostly around the ankles were in all kinds of sun induced agony, so much so that on the next day I arrived at the beach wearing a pair of thick black socks with my shorts and converse trainers. Ye Gads!- I looked remarkably daft- even by my lowly standards. My glasses and badly out of shape cap didn't exactly make me look like the Fonz. Whilst in this ridiculous get up, I thought at the very least that the only people who could laugh at me (to my face) me would be my friends and having known them for years I can look stupid without feeling too embarrassed. Of course the hundreds of speedo and bikini clad sunbathers on the beach probably had a good laugh at my expense. Alas, as ever, my luck got worse. Whilst waiting at a bar on the way back from the beach I discovered that I was sat at a table next to two girls who were on my degree course. After acknowledgements were made to each other we started to chat and whilst I was desperately trying hard not to mention what I do for a living (this is always a minefield of conversational problems- do I say I'm a musician- but currently doing a temp job whilst I wait for the big fat payolla? Or do I say I work in an office as a dog's body, whom according to the recently published hierarchical flowchart I am on a par with the Fax machine. I decided a few years ago to avoid talking about this area of my life at all costs to avoid embarrassment or worse- asking about the band- which should you know by reading previous posts I don't like to discuss as it is now the sole topic of conversation people start with me! "how's the band doing?" AGGGGHHH! I'm a person -not a bass player!!!) I could feel her gaze be drawn to my red shins, black sock clad legs. As usual, defense to this is to explain as to why I looked this way in the most self-depreciative way as I can get way with. For the first time ever (or as i recall) I felt a proper English twit.

On a plus note regarding this encounter, I wasn't made to look like a weird obsessive fool as I often do when meeting up with old acquaintances. Usually, if we do the 'stop and chat' I always remember their name- no matter how long ago in the past it was when we knew each other and for the majority of the times my politeness is usually met with "sorry about this, but I can't remember your name" which is thoroughly degrading for one to keep hearing. This time, I knew the face and I remember always getting on with her- after all she was a fellow illustrator, but for once my embarrassingly awkward excellent long term memory failed me and I was forced to apologies for forgetting her name. Of course she had forgotten mine too- or so she said, perhaps she felt it polite to pretend that she'd forgotten mine (a strategy I shall no adopt for future encounters with characters from my past) which left me feeling oddly satisfied as we were therefore on the same level.

But back to the music- seriously The Stokes…wow it’s sad to see just how crap and predictable they’ve become. Okay, perhaps I hold them responsible for the change in the music industry and the plethora of curly haired, skinny, denim/leather clad ‘punks’ that blight me ear on a daily basis, but still they were sooooooooooooo boring. Cassablancas stage demeanor looked so cliché and his slight mumblings in that annoying too cool for school American drawl to the audience did little to raise the spirits. More often or not I dislike it when a singer talks for hours on end (with the exception of Billy Bragg & Elbow) he could have at least informed the crowd that they were going to play their last song, or indeed say good bye to the crowd, rather than skulk off the stage after another two and a half minute long blandpunk–shitty-disco-pop leaving a rather bemused crowd wandering what was going on.

Anyhow, I’ll bore you with some more detailed information later- I’m off to burn my Strokes CDs.