Festival

It's true, I couldn't think of a better title than that.

So I'm in a small enclosure known as the BT Chill Zone, where I have come to seek solace from the audio travesty that is The Kooks (flame if you want, I regularly fire-proof my inbox). It's bloody cold but fantastic. However if I had a quid for every weirdo that's decided to rub up against me (quite literally)...There was the dude in suspenders and pink pants who rubbed his arse against mine as we walked, there was the drunk guy who stroked my shoe as Liz and I were sat down eating baked potato (followed closely by his mollified girlfriend who apologised until she went blue), and there was the drunk guy who accused Liz and I of being men. Among many, many, many others, and I suspect many to come.

A word before you read any further: NEWTON. FAULKNER. ROCKS. Seriously. Go and see if it's on YouTube or MyFunnel or such garb, I think it may even be on (horror) ITV1. Do it. You won't regret it.

Anyway, a proper blog, supposing previous examples are anything to go by, will be up as soon as I get back, have some ice cream and a proper meal and scrape off the top five layers or so of my skin. And a hug from Etnad, whom I have missed achingly (if that's even a word. I just don't know. I've had a tanker of that 'legal high' oxygen stuff, and to be honest I don't think it's done anything, but we never know. We just never know).

I think that's the end of the Kooks. Off to see Sting and The Police!