Bestival

Ideally, I'd like to say I'm now fully recovered from the glorious weekend that was Bestival 2011, but given I'm nursing a hangover after meeting my friend Helen for 'a pint' to return her tent, and was wearing my Bestival hoodie during the 3 hours in the pub, I'm blaming the festival for my current state of distress.

Just as well, then, that I don't have to get up at 3am tomorrow to catch a flight up north, or attempt to climb Ben Nevis on Saturday. Oh. Wait.

Yep, despite my lungs feeling like they're clogged with half of the Isle of Wight's topography & shrivelled by a lack of non-smoking, and although my legs haven't seen any exercise since the British 10K on 10 July, the charity climb for Marie Curie that we signed up for in January is almost upon us. Flights and accommodation are booked, and all that remains is to get up there and hope the weather and our stamina hold.

Bestival was amazing - something about the atmosphere and site this time made me wander round in a state of cheeriness all weekend. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was positive for an entire 4 days in a row - which hasn't happened to me since I was about 6. The lack of 'must see' bands (from my perspective) meant I was pretty relaxed about where we went and who we saw; my early recommendation for opening band of the weekend (Fenech Soler) were a huge disappointment in the flesh - their stomping tunes let down by a cheesy as hell front man (all sun tan, muscle tee and pretend drum-playing during the instrumentals) and a stage show which suggested they believed themselves somewhat more famous than they are - and after that I was content to shut up and let someone else drive.

Over the course of the weekend I managed to catch Brian Wilson, Public Enemy, Kitty Daisy & Lewis, Frank Turner, Willy Mason (my personal highlight, playing on the bandstand at 11pm on Saturday night to a crowd in the hundreds), Goldie Lookin Chain, PJ Harvey, Toots & the Maytalls, Grandmaster Flash, Bjork, Mogwai and many others who's names and performances are lost in the clouds of my addled brain.

As with most festivals though, it was more about hanging out with your mates rather than ticking acts off a list - with adulthood and increasingly stressful jobs and responsibilities, I don't see my friends as much as I once did, and it was great to just have a long weekend in the company of some of my nearest and dearest, who were all on top form. There was quite an organic flow to who was hanging out with who over the course of the weekend, meaning I got to spend quality time with just about everyone - whilst Helen & Lucy were off raving on Saturday, Jennie & I watched the Cure with Craig before heading off to see Willy Mason; whereas Helen & I were the last two standing on both the opening and final nights. Likewise, Brian Wilson's journey through the Beach Boys' back catalogue took place next to Craig, as we sang our heads off in the sunshine on Friday afternoon. The only person I didn't spend any time alone with was Lucy, but then I live upstairs from her, so she's probably sick of the sight (or at least sound) of me.

The transport organisation on the Isle of Wight was, as usual, abysmal - they're just not prepared for such an influx of people (despite this being, I believe, the 8th Bestival), and their sleepy islander brains seem incapable of making decisions or ensuring any amount of order. I'm basing this sweeping, rude generalisation on the performance of one employee of Hovertravel, who managed to actually make the attempts to get on a shuttle bus worse by trying to organise it than if she'd stuck to her original plan of whistling nonchalantly to herself whilst deliberately looking the other way.

After 4 hours standing in a car park in Ryde, Lucy eventually came to the rescue by catching the eye of a local taxi driver, who gave us his word he'd come back and collect us next. Given the alternatives, we left the scrum waiting for non-existent buses to arrive and took up residence at the edge of the car park. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, Bernie - the nicest taxi driver in Christendom - reappeared and we were finally en route to the festival. As with the trip home in 2009, the travel chaos had its advantages when we reached the site itself, with virtually no queue to get in. Bernie's good deed and cheery banter got us back into the right frame of mind, and set the tone for the rest of the weekend - but it could have been oh so different.

The fancy dress wasn't as well supported this year as previously, which was a disappointment. It seemed the Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas theme seemed to fire people's imaginations. Our shop bought outfits looked great though - I'll post some photos once I get the edited highlights onto Flickr. The presence of the Village People on the main stage on Saturday afternoon, combined with the theme, did result in probably the most amusing sight of the weekend -  an extremely confused looking bloke (assume drug dealer) being roughly manhandled through the crowd and into a holding area, his arms crushed behind his back by two burly undercover officers dressed as a gay construction worker and a red indian! I'm not entirely sure I agree with the approach of catching someone in the act rather than having a visible presence to prevent the act in the first place, but it was pretty hilarious for the crowd of onlookers - especially as the cops chose to wrestle him to the ground and sit on his back behind a mesh fence which offered no privacy to them or their captive.

Final mention has to go to the weather - it held up surprisingly well for the majority of the weekend (I have sunburn as I write), but on Saturday night the heavens opened and a downpour ensued. As a result, the grass had disappeared from the arena by the time we made it in on Sunday - but was bearable, even if it meant we were unable to sit down. On the final night, however, after waiting for Bjork and the end of festivals fireworks to finish, the rain returned - and this time it had brought its friend gale. One am saw me hanging onto our gazebo for dear life, as a pop up tent popped up from its mooring nearby, sailed through the air, bounced off the top of the gazebo above my head and fly over the back of our 4 man tent. Having got the gazebo down, I returned to my own tent, which was backing onto the path and therefore had nothing to act as a windbreak, and endured one of the most uncomfortable and concerning night's 'sleep' of my life, as the wind flattened the tent down over my face, and imagined objects ripped loose and flew across the camp site towards me.

Thankfully, nothing did actually hit me, we all survived intact, and our trip home was nothing short of miraculous - after leaving our camp site at 9am, we were back in Brixton shortly after 2pm and drinking in the pub by 3. The sun came out, the wind had disappeared and a few pints in the Hootananny was a perfect end to a brilliant, if exhausting, weekend.

Could do with a few more weeks rest though.

Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...

We'd the pleasure of welcoming our second guests to the flat (not bad for over a year of living here) last weekend - J's cousin Kasia and her husband.

She's posted her pictures of the trip on her blog - including some taken in Brixton Village and in our neighbourhood. In particular, she has captured our rocking chair (I say 'our'; it's on loan from a friend) in a way I could only dream of seeing, never mind capturing.

Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...: Jakże niewiarygodne jest to, że w dzisiejszych czasach człowiek jednego dnia spędza popołudnie w Londyńskim Chinatown, a drugiego dziarsko m...

Trains

Am standing in City Thameslink as I write (the wonders of moderner technology), perusing my preference for overland trains rather than the underground. Had I taken the tube from St Pauls, I'd be relatively hurtling towards Oxford Circus right now, rather than attempting to ignore the couple of pints of IPA that are slowly working their way to their exit point.

But then I'd be squashed in a hot tube with a smorgasbord of travellers across London - whereas here I'm in the relatively subdued and refined surroundings of fellow office monkeys just trying to get homewards after a hard day at work. That's what I'm looking for at this point on a weekday - none of the vocal exuberance of recently-arrived tourists, no shady characters lurking by the doorway. And, leaving Blackfriars station and crossing the Thames, the view (Tower Bridge on one side, the London Eye on the other) reminds me how exciting it is to live in one of the greatest cities on earth, when travel beneath terra firma sees you depart one urban street and pop out in another.

I have Paul Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express" for company, allowing me to mentally relocate from the Sutton Service to other trains on the other side of the world, and disembarkation in Herne Hill with a walk through the park towards home.

So, then. A more civilised way to travel. And one that means some poor French exchange student doesn't have my beery stench being breathed all over them from close quarters.