missing dust jacket

Disappointed with Mark Ronson, we squelched through the soupy mud over to the John Peel stage to watch Patrick Wolf. I have been reliably informed by a good friend that the man is a prize git and so I have been dutifully trying not to like him. Unfortunately his sprightly fiddle-playing, brassy vocals and impish dancing whips up a frenzy of happiness in the crowd and before I was able to stop myself, Patrick Wolf had put me in the magic position. I hung my head in shame.

Minifig and I didn’t really mean to catch John Fogerty, formerly of Creedence Clearwater Revival, but while waiting for Rodrigo y Gabriela we inadvertently ended up dancing together, clutching our pear cider and giggling. John Fogerty was a treat, playing beefy guitar rock that drew an enormous cheer from the elderly crowd as Bad Moon Rising began to play. And I didn’t feel the least bit guilty clapping along to Rockin’ All Over the World. So there.

Sadly, despite having only two guitars, Rodrigo y Gabriela suffer a technical malfunction, meaning my plan to catch the beginning of their set and the end of Iggy and the Stooges is well and truly scuppered. Above the rain this is my disappointment of the festival. I miss the whole stage invasion at Iggy and the Stooges, Iggy falling over on stage and the opportunity to bounce around and shout. Boo. I also fall over in the mud near Jazz World and am rudely interrupted on the loo. Not the finst 90 minutes of my life. A potent reminder that you should always ditch your friends at festivals and go and see your favourite artists….except, then I would have missed John Fogerty. Hmmn. Such a quandry.

As the clock edged closer to midnight, minifig gallantly abandoned his plans to see Rodrigo y Gabriela so I could see Iggy. And okay, so I only saw one song, but it’s my favourite song, I Wanna Be Your Dog. It took all night for the face-breaking smile to leave my face. We also managed to see the end of Rodrigo y Gabriela. I can’t argue with their technical excellence, but I think an indoor Barbican-style gig would suit them much better as watching two tiny people play fiddly guitar from miles away is a bit dull actually.

Buoyed up by Iggy, minifig and I trundled up to Strummerville, Joe Strummer’s Glastonbury campfire, to raise a drink to Joe and other old friends and loved ones. Halfway through a bottle of wine we realised that actually, between us, we know a lot of dead people and perhaps it was best to call it a night. I fell asleep, dreaming of Iggy’s torso.