Festivals

Summer means one thing. Well, lots of things, among which are chilled wine outside, horrendous tube travel and being exposed to more London body odour than usual. But the MAIN thing for me is festivals.

I let my Glasto ticket go this year for various reasons (Don't. Ask.), but I booked some other festivals instead. Because I'm now a bone fide Londoner, I have easy access to the city festivals. Days for middle-class types who think they're 'hip' and attend open air music events, but at the end of the day would like to sleep in a bed and use a proper, clean toilet. Fair enough. They do unfortunately also attract scallies. People who aren't that arsed about the music but figure it's an excuse to get off your tits on cider and narcotics outside, go topless (mainly the blokes) and generally behave like a bit of a yobby nob.

I went to Wireless with The Foodie, The German and some of The Foodie's friends. Despite the not-proper-festival-goers and the chavs, it was a fun day out and we saw UNKLE, 2 Many DJs and LCD Soundsystem among others.

This weekend just gone, I attended my only 'proper' festival this year. Ie, full-on camping. Portaloos. Being lost in a field. Being accosted by a friendly but MUNTED individual at four AM in the camp site who's on about the pink rabits and the universe, man. Lounge on the Farm is a lovely local festival I've been attending for years and is getting some major recognition and acts playing. Over the years there I've seen Mr Scruff, the xx, Quantic, Syd Arthur, Mystery Jets, Roots Manuva, Scroobius Pip and lots of others that I cannot recall. This year I didn't see as much music as normal as I was working for The Greek in a restaurant in The Meadows field but I did see Slow Club and the bloody magnificent Toots & The Maytals who I thought did a wicked set. Live reggae played by legends in a cowshed after you've had about eight pints - what's not to like?

So, things I learned at LOTF this year:

I never, ever have an easy time packing - but then once I am there can rarely be arsed to get changed anyway.

I ALWAYS get ridiculous farmer-style sunburn literally within the first hour of arriving. Even if it's grey and rainy.

During the late-night gatherings at smaller stages, or round a campfire, there's always a mash up individual who *thinks* they're some sort of bongo wizard and drums incessantly. They're normally not very good, but sufficiently have their senses altered to believe that the noisy offbeat tapping is some sort of primal rhythm.

There's always some dazed people wandering around in grubby animal costumes the day after the festival has finished.

Drinking cider with breakfast is PERFECTLY acceptable at festivals.

I am getting old, and every year exclaim HOW MANY TEENAGERS ARE IN ATTENDANCE!?

Despite my trepidation every time, I cope remarkably well with kipping in a tent and actually actively enjoy brushing my teeth in a field under the stars.

The toilets aren't actually as bad as you think they'll be. But maybe I was just lucky.

So, two festivals out of three this month are done. I'm making the most of Lovebox being down the road from my house and attending that this weekend. Let's hope it's mainly nice people and doesn't attract the stabby, shooty teenage Hackney types. If they're reading this, just chill out yeah?

"Deer park? Is that because it's expensive to get into?"

No'rn Ir'on and I decided that after the cocktail and wine excess of Bank Holiday Sunday, today we ought to go and power walk around Victoria Park. I was nervous about the squirrels but we braved it, those and the stabby gangs.

Hackneyites and their dogs filled the park, meaning that we got inevitably overexcited at the canine frolicking.

"Awww look at that one!"

"Ah, he's got a cool face, I'd call him Duncan."

We spied a couple with a few young Italian Greyhounds,

"OH look at those! Oh no wait. Oh no, they're REALLY going for it." Not really what you want to see on a civilised Monday afternoon.

No'rn Ir'on: "No wait, I want to see how they separate them, like."

I dragged her away from the doggy show and we marched around the lake. Of course, there were kids everywhere. Not No'rn Ir'on's favourite things. A family consisted of three squawky young girls whining and bickering.

"I'm not even sorry that I want to punch them."

We decided to venture into the part of the park that we've never been in before. The signposts promised exotic adventures - a model boating lake, the mystically-titled One O Clock Club and the deer park. DEER. In east London.

No'rn Ir'on remarks, "Is that because it's really expensive?" and sniggers to herself.

We actually do catch a glimpse of two sleeping deer and it makes my day.

As we meander around the model boating lake, laughing at dogs splashing around in the water, No'rn Ir'on picks her way along the edge. I resist the urge to shove her into the water, very tempting. I inform her of this and she poses, sticking her bum out. I realise that we look mental and we're in very close proximity to the children's play area so should probably move along.

Naturally, we encounter the scary east London squirrels, and find one holding court under a tree with a gaggle of pigeons. I think that it's going to launch itself at a pigeon and eat it. No'rn Ir'on is more concerned with that fact that they might get a little amorous like the greyhounds earlier.

"They're going to MATE and then it will get out of hand and before you know it, the park will be overrun with SQUIDGEONS."

As we wander off giggling, I spy a man who I've seen several times this weekend. Tall, east London skinny, massive quiff and some particularly striking and brave sartorial choices. I mention that he's quite beautiful to No'rn Ir'on.

"No way, he's so totally gay."

"Not necessarily! Even straight guys in Hackney dress like that."

"You only fancy guys that look gay."

"Maybe I do. Hence why so unsuccessful in these matters."

"I know that if I am about to congratulate a man on his TUNIC, he's probably a queen."

One to mull over there, I think.

"You Look Like Andy Warhol."

Another weekend.... another visit from the Blonde. What could possibly go wrong when I was taking an afternoon off work to meet her and go for a late (liquid) lunch?

It started off in Moro - for anyone who hasn't tried this restaurant, this genuinely is the best food I've ever had. Exquisite tapas and a great atmosphere and a wine list to die for. We promptly worked our way through a divine bottle of Txacoli and had a rather enjoyable little crawl round the drinking establishments of Exmouth Market. Medcalfs, the old butchers, is a nice place to chill out (we met The Greek there for one or two), as well as a brilliant spot for listening to Islington rah-rahs harp on loudly.

"Yah, I laaarve the names Poppy and Scarlet and Oscar, fwa?"

A twenty-something woman addressed her mum,

"Why didn't you give me a proper Spanish name Mummy?... Chloe is SO common now."

The Blonde and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh out loud.

We presented the bar man in Cafe Kick the brief of: dry, vodka-based cocktail please thankyouverymuch. He came back with a Berry Martini fit for a Queen and we promptly had 3. What, we had to check for consistency?

By this point, The Blonde was fully in Camera Club mode, taking arty shots of light fittings and such. She'd just discovered turning the flash off for better night time photos. We asked a poor man sat at the next table to take a shot of the two of us, and she wasn't shy with direction.

"Put your elbows on the table so it's not blurry... PUT YOUR ELBOWS ON THE TABLE!"

Fully getting into the stride of a slightly boozy afternoon, we happened upon my wonderful local where we shared a cheeseboard at the bar. Somehow, The Blonde came back from the loo to find me fully engaged in conversation about the design industry with a rather attractive young man. I forgot about this until the end of the night, when The Blonde nicked a business card off me and thrust it upon him.

"Call her! She's a designer!"

Me, dying inside: "No, Blonde, I'm not a designer. I work in design."

"Anyway, she thinks you're nice, call her. Byeeeee!"

I scarpered shame-faced from the pub and we went home to dance and for The Blonde to eat a serious amount of cocktail sausages. I played her some tracks I'd been listening to. She couldn't get her head around the Scroobius Pip track Thou Shalt Always Kill.

"Who's this? Scrupulous Pigs?"

"Yes. Time for bed."

It's never fun on a Saturday morning when some twat decides that pre-9am is a brilliant time to do some extraordinarily loud drilling outside your window. We come round with brews and talk about the evening before. Since we're both trying not to eat too many carbs as well (shh, wine and martinis so don't count), we get onto the subject of food. The Blonde looks wistful and I know she's about to come out with one of her cracking interchangeable quotes.

"I LOVE [insert random thing]" This time, it was, yep you've guessed it - potatoes of course.

We make our way to Borough Market for some mooching and sampling and probably quite a bit of Camera Club, and for some reason end up talking about marriage and taking your husband's name.

The Blonde says earnestly, "I'm quite attached to my name." As one would be.

Borough Market is overwhelming in its delights and we kick off the weekend in the totally normal fashion at 12 noon - Prosecco! The Blonde gets unbelievably excited by a sign in the Spanish shop Brindisa advertising 'Ham School'. No, really. One of the interchangeable quotes from above occurred while tucking into a plate of antipasti.

"I love ham."

The next thing that has The Blonde squealing with excitement is a stall selling Drunk Cheese.

"That's got my name ALL over it!" I have photos of her proudly posing underneath the sign and sampling some.

Next stop, Spitalfields for more wandering and shopping. I cross over into full Shoreditch Wankdom and purchase some of those fake glasses that look like the sort of thing Deirdre from Coronation Street would turn down on account of them being a bit ugly. You know the kind. The Blonde persuaded me. They just make me look more like the geeky one from Scooby Doo. I kept them in my bag.

We wander round Brick Lane, meet Oxford for drinks and then make our way to Broadway. On the way we pass someone's post outside their house. I was going to say that I'd love to know what goes on inside The Blonde's head, but I do already know and it's just baffling.

"Oooooh, LOOK, the phone book's thin now isn't it?"

I don't know how to come back to that.

We sat in Off Broadway and admired the east end lot dressed in their war time get up, and the large number of seriously cool dogs that people had in there. We complimented a lady on her fine-looking cocktail and she let us try it. How kind.

The rest of the evening involved takeaway and inane discussions brought on by The Blonde forcing me to watch Britain's Got Talent. (Questionable.)

"I reckon Amanda Holden could be in our gang, you know."

Sunday brings crazy cheese-related dreams, and I make The Blonde try on my comedy fashion glasses. It's a revelation.

"You look like Andy Warhol!"

"I'm not sure I want to look like that."

On the way back to Spitalfields, The Blonde is lamenting her fading fake tan.

"It dries your skin out, so you moisturise - then you lose your bloody tan. Double edged sword mate, seriously. It's a tough life."

Spitalfields brings the longest cash point queue in the world, the tannoy asking about a million times for 'Staff 200' who was clearly having a fag and a brew round the back, and The Blonde directing me to get her picture but only if I can "get the anchor-print jumper in!"

Lunch at Giraffe was followed by a walk home through some less than charming estates where a massive guy carrying a suitcase on his head kept shouting, "Hey lady!" to The Blonde. When she ignored him, he qualified it with, "I'm from Spain, I a nice guy."

One, he didn't look or sound Spanish. Two, the Spanish thing doesn't negate the fact you're carrying a suitcase on your head in an east end estate.

"Is that bloke having a POO on the pavement?!"

I spent the last week in a frenzy of cleaning and excitement, as my elder sister was coming to visit me in London with my gorgeous, clever, thoroughly excellent niece. I anticipated a civilised, cultural weekend with a few quiet drinks in the evenings once Pony Mad niece had gone to bed... It's Sunday afternoon and I am sat watching Come Dine With Me while nursing a headache that just won't shift, surprising myself that I am actually writing words that vaguely do go together.

Friday evening was a lovely stroll around St Paul's, Southbank, Shad Thames and Tower Bridge, culminating in an Italian meal where I carb-loaded quite spectacularly. Back at mine, PonyMad went to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in bed and Sister and I proceeded to demolish quite a large volume of white wine and cigarettes on the balcony while talking life, love and what giving birth is really like. About three glasses after a sensible person would have stopped drinking, No'rn Iron came home from a work night out and we cracked open the last bottle. She proceeded to tell Sister all about a bloke who was being an idiot while we made sisterhood-like supportive noises.

"Tell him to fook off, fookin' prick." I never thought I'd see my nine-years-senior police officer mother-of-two sister drunkenly, liberally pepper sentences with the C word, quite happily with my housemate.

Saturday morning I definitely felt a bit rough, but a magic shower and loads of tea helped. I was bursting with pride that PonyMad not only makes the family morning tea at a weekend, but drank two cups in a row before getting ready. The plan was to go and check out the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, this made me more excited than PonyMad. First though we went to Broadway market for a mooch about and she displayed her exquisite taste by choosing a swallow necklace from one of my favourite stalls.

We detoured on the way back to Hackney City Farm, just to show them how urban Londoners do 'rural.' Coming from rural Lancashire, they weren't that impressed but we did enjoy watching people try to catch very hoppy rabbits. Sister then persuaded me that if a cat or dog wasn't an option, I could SO get a guinea pig. And call it Duncan. Yeah!

We made it on the Tube to South Kensington, encountering a woman in the carriage who appeared to have had an amazing amount of work done on her face. I was sat opposite Sister and we caught each other's eyes and tried not to a) laugh or b) involuntarily shout "Look at her LIPS though!" As we approached the museum in the sunshine, it was clear I'd made a schoolgirl error and not thought about the fact that every fucker was in London with their kids to see the dinosaurs on Bank Holiday weekend. We made do with a wander to Buckingham Palace so that PonyMad could wave to the Queen. (Or 'our Liz as I like to call her.)

Strolling from Victoria station, we noticed a sleeping bag strewn across a pavement and a large beardy man crouched down by a lamp post. I clocked what was happening and chose not to mention it.

Sister, loudly in a Bolton accent: "Is that man having a POO? Is he? Is he having a POO on the pavement?!"

Sadly, he was. I'm glad they got to see all the important sights, no one should leave the Big Smoke without having seen a vagrant defacate in public in broad daylight. *Tries not to vom*

We chose to have a quiet night in watching Britain's Got Talent (questionable) and Sister, after having declared in Tesco earlier that "we'd only need two bottles of wine," suggested I go to the shop and get some more. It turned into us being tiddly on the balcony, and Sister commenting that, "by the time I was your age, I'd met the love of my life and was having PonyMad." I told her of my plans to be a cat lady. Well not so much plans, as my Fate.

"You know what? London men in skinny jeans with pointy shoes are TWATS. You need to go out with a nice Northern lad. Fuck these Fashionista types!"

"There's that bloke off the telly."

Waking up with no hangover was brilliant and The Blonde and I had big plans - Camera Club London was going to be in session, starting off in Columbia Road and making it's way to St Paul's and Southbank. We dandered to Columbia Road market so that The Blonde could experience the Cockney flower sellers shouting, and see the beautiful east end crowd again. It's so busy that I really want to punch people, but then I cheer up and forget all about it as I discover a vintage stall and spend money on a peach teacup set and a tin with a horse on. Brilliant.

We go and wait at the bus stop to go to The City, and a group of rather posh boys wanders past, clutching big bottles of Evian and looking rather disheveled. One of them asks,

"I say - do you know of any cafes around here? A greasy spoon, if you will."

I point them in the right direction and get a fist-bump in return for my helpfulness. I always gets asked for directions. I either look very friendly, helpful and knowledgeable; or like a cabbie. I think it's the latter.

The Blonde is sat at the bus stop and is rifling through her handbag looking for something. She pulls out a packet of snacks she'd bought for the train.

"I'm still clutching these fucking wasabi peas!"

She then eats a rice cracker that she found in her handbag and assesses it.

"Yes, salty and a bit cheesy. I want more."

After strolling around St Paul's and Southbank with every other fucking tourist in London, we park ourselves in a pub for lunch. The speakers were blaring out some R n B rubbish. I announce that it makes me want to hurt myself.

The Blonde: "Is this Chris Brown?"

Me: "I don't know... some TWAT."

After a hearty lunch we wander along the Thames Path and walk past The Golden Hind.

The Blonde spies someone and says,

"That's the bloke off the telly!"

By 'bloke off the telly', she means Andrew Marr. He's walking along with someone who we presume is his daughter, looking like he's talking very earnestly and knowledgeably about the ship.

The path runs along past the London Dungeons and we walk past it under the bridge arch. The Blonde is concentrating on faffing with her camera or something, and I spy a very tall, sinister-looking guy who works for the Dungeons, drawing the crowds in. I don't say anything. He walks past The Blonde and touches her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Go easy, my child...."

The Blonde literally does a comedy gasp and nearly falls over, tears filling her eyes. The man walks off and I'm laughing at her shock, but she actually is frightened and has to go and have a moment to compose herself as she tries not to have a heart attack and vomit and sob all at once.

"I feel sick! I'm going to be sick! Fucking hell! I've got a very nervous disposition!"

A family walks past with a child screaming it's lungs out and she wails,

"That's how I feel inside! I know where you're coming from."

I take her back to mine to recover by watching some DVDs and drinking some tea. This relaxed, sensible domesticity doesn't last long and before I know it, we're finishing off Sunday with another trip to my local.

I wince as the barman says, "You were in here Friday weren't you."

Me: "Yes, I am dreadfully sorry if we were inappropriate or anything - it was a little, er, messy."

Barman: "No, don't worry - you gave us some great business."

I smile weakly and slink off back to the table feeling like the local lush and deciding that maybe I shouldn't go in for a while.

We round off the evening by watching The Inbetweeners with a take away and laughing at one of my favourite lines from the show.

"The winky face is the mark of a moron!"

;)

"Baby vomit though, how would you get that out of military tassles?"

The Blonde woke me up by trilling "brew?" across the lounge. I think my response was "that would be lovely in theory but I'm a little worse for wear and that might not go down too well at this current moment in time." Well, that's how it sounded in my head but in reality I think I just made the sort of noise an animal does as it dies in tremendous pain.

The Blonde made me drink some tea as I wondered what the hell had happened last night and why there were bits of broken glass on the floor. She went off to get ready (weirdly chirpy considering the events of the previous evening) and left me with some toast on the sofa. I promptly put my foot in said jammy toast, whimpered a bit and announced that "I needed a little lie down."

After being forced to shower I had that amazing hangover euphoria where the glorious hot water tricks you into thinking that you're fine. The novelty of not feeling rotten anymore makes you thankful to be alive and you feel like you could take on the world. I swept into the kitchen in full make up and a cloud of Jo Malone and announced to The Blonde, "I'm baaaack! Let's go to Broadway market!"

We go and join the beautiful and cool hipsters of east London and wander round the market stalls selling over-priced handmade and vintage things and amazing food. We're both fully consumed by hangover shopping; The Blonde buys a brooch with a sausage dog on, and I spy my perfect piece of jewelry.

"Blonde, there's a necklace with a horse on. A HORSE. I fucking need it in my life." They also had gorgeous handmade teacups on necklaces which I very nearly spent a fortune on, but then thought better of. Next time I'm hungover.

We were both also charmed by the Scrabble piece rings from this gorgeous boutique full of delightful designs, and fifty quid lighter we flounced off with our rather lovely new purchases.

Randomly we bumped into Terry outside a shop on Broadway, and made the usual "eeek, I was SO drunk last night" noises. We asked what he was doing with the rest of his Saturday.

"I think I'm going to go home and read this article in The Times on child abuse." I do love a cheerful Saturday. The Blonde and Terry then discussed their performance of Erasure the evening before. I admitted that I absolutely did not recall that happening, and they both burst into song again in the middle of the packed market. I was both embarrassed and impressed.

After a little walk and some fresh air, and not quite enough water, we were starting to feel a bit grim again. So naturally, we decide that the best possible plan would be to go to The Dove (one of London's best pubs) to have lunch. And beer. I think some sort of post-hangover hysteria set in, as that one long lunch resulted in the The Blonde muttering the immortal phrases,

"She's not warm... or endearing... OH JUST PUT SOME FUCKING CONCEALER ON, LOVE!"

"You know when you're at home on your own? Well I love spinning around in the kitchen. And sometimes I skip to the bathroom."

"Puffin, drink your beer! And eat your meat! You'll feel better."

"I can't imagine her in a wedding dress... you can't polish a turd, can you?"

I can't quite manage my springbok sausages and mash, but start to feel more human again after a pint. The Blonde is fully back in the game and we decide to venture to another pub. The Cat & Mutton on Broadway was the lucky recipient of our vaguely hysterical presence, and we were delighted to see the bloke who plays double bass around the markets outside. He worked his way through some tunes by The Specials and suddenly an east end Mod turned up and joined in.

"'Ere mate, play King of the Swingers!" He then proceeded to give us a brilliant performance of that, only stopping to shout to his bald mate,

"'Ere, Dave! Dave! Come over 'ere with your big shiny face!"

Between songs he bantered with the crowd, coming out with priceless lines such as,

"I'm a national fackin' 'ero I am, you'll be seeing my face on teatowels in the future! This is a once in a lifetime experience!" Then he leapt off a bollard as The Blonde took photos.

We wandered back down the market and stumbled across Off Broadway, a lovely cocktail bar with a Frida Kahlo - lookalike landlady and vintage music, as well as an epic cocktail menu. We sampled the Amaretto Sours and a very good lychee Daiquiri. The beautiful people on the table next to us had a very cute, tiny baby in tow. Neither of us are particularly maternal but we did agree that it was dead sweet. The Blonde considered this, then glanced at her miltary-styled top with tassle detail on the shoulders, and asked earnestly,

"Baby vomit though. I mean, how would you get that out of military tassles? Have you SEEN this chainwork? It'd never come out."

"Do you want a cork for that?"

Friday evening. The Blonde had come down from Edinburgh to spend a weekend poncing about east London with me. Upon her arrival we went straight to the old man's pub in Clerkenwell for a catch up pint or two.

I was overjoyed at being presented with much-coveted Pantone teatowels, and I presented The Blonde with my home-made Camera Club badges. (During the creation of which I almost broke the Badge-It badgemaker, designed for kids but somehow unfathomable to a 27 year old professional woman.)

Next on the list was a trip to my much-harped on about local in Hackney. Impeccable service, great atmosphere and a nice mix of people. We bagged ourselves a table at the back and began the cackling and drinking. The Blonde thought that the lovely Aussie waiter was like a Summer Heights High character. We were meant to be meeting The Blonde's old pal from her teenage years; affectionately known in their friendship group as 'Terry Fuckwit' after the Viz character; for generally being, well, a bit shit.

Three hours later, Terry did turn up. Inexplicably clutching a DVD of series one of My So Called Life. I still never found out why this was. They'd not seen each other for two years, so an epic catch-up session began involving a lot of wine. Before we knew it, after ordering another bottle of Sauvignon, the lovely staff insisted that it really was closing up time and we had to go. Please.

A worse-for-wear Blonde to the Aussie waiter: "Can I take my wine home?"

Waiter: "Yes... do you want a cork for that?"

The Blonde, looking confused: "....for what?"

Waiter: "... the bottle of wine?"

The Blonde: "Oh. Yes." Stood looking baffled with a bottle and a cork.

Waiter: "Shall I put it in for you?"

The Blonde: "Oh yes, thank you."

Me, Terry and the Blonde staggered back to mine arm in arm, and it's about here I'm not totally sure as to what happened next. Things I recall:

Smashing my last beautiful wine glass.

Dancing to Pulp's Babies in my slippers. (Both cool AND alluring)

Telling Terry and The Blonde to stop putting their iPods on "because I'VE MADE A PLAYLIST!"

Apparently at one point, Terry requested Erasure. I didn't have it on my iPod, I think I presented him with a laptop, mumbled "Spotify" and smiled like an idiot. It wasn't going to happen. So, in order to fill the Erasure-shaped hole, they apparently burst into a harmonised, acapella version of the song. I wish I remembered this. Luckily, I was treated to another version the next day.

Suffice to say, around 3am, Terry left, The Blonde crashed in my bed and I found my way onto the sofa still mumbling "No, don't put YOUR iPod on, I've made a fucking playlist!"