I can't describe the way I'm feeling this morning.
I can describe last night though, and am going to try to go over the past three days, give you people an idea of Vintage, how amazing it is, and how tough it's been to keep my dick in my pants.
I'm going to work backwards, as last night needs some words. There were tears (lots of tears) I think, it probably went wrong at about the same point Jack and I walked 2 crates of beer and a bottle of gin round from the backstage bar to the dance floor of The Warehouse. Greg Wilson was going reel-to-reel, everyone was having a super smashing great time... We decided (maybe wrongly) that we required more booze, and lots of it.
I don't blame anyone, how could you? Jack's worked so hard on this event that it would be impossible to direct any sort of blame towards him, Sarah, Tilly, anyone. Especially as there was a point yesterday when Greg, Ferg, and I turned to each other and said "I think this is the best festival I've been to..." that's an accolade you want attached - the seal of approval from us three idiots.
It was incredible though, Friday with Sandie Shaw, Saturday with a head full of disco and house, and Sunday morning....the sun came out to play in the most excellent of fashions come Sunday morning. None of us felt to good, but it was a Sunday. Needless to say, you can feel as bad as you want, but when Kid Creole does those thing to his Coconuts it's impossible not to smile. He was brilliant. Wayne started a conga, it didn't go that well, but a fifteen minute version of 'Stool Pigeon' soon made up for that. If you weren't smiling for that, you definitely would be for the 'Chap Olympiad.' The very image of Jack hurtling towards Sarah on bikes, armed with umbrellas and copies of the Daily Mail for shields (in what was dubbed; the bicycle umbrella joust) will forever make me smile.
Leroy Hutson was beautiful. The wonderful Candice had decided to come back to see Joey Negro, not sure that happened, but it was lovely to see her again.... I'm very very glad she wasn't still in that yellow dress. Then back to Jazzy B's two hours of eye-ball vibrating, spine shaking set, followed by the main man Greg Dubya closing it off in style. What wasn't to like, what wasn't to love? It didn't quite turn out like that, but the only people to blame our ourselves, and that massive South African bouncer who just didn't find it funny.
That aside, it really was the most brilliant weekend. I may be slightly biased, but it genuinely was magical. I've woken this morning to no voice, and have just this very minute been asked to do a statement on the events of last night. It's going to have to be written. I've got no phone, due to that being broken by Jazzy B's set, and there are people I really need to speak to - if I gave you my number this weekend, then do drop me a line I do want to hear from you.
All of the reviews have been exceptional so far, and in the midst of everything I've completely forgotten about the 40 days and 40 nights! That's not to say I'm giving up, no sir, I'm going strong and am on the final stretch now, it's counting down the days now rather than breaking into cold sweats at the thought of another month of celibacy.
Life, other than this hangover of monumental proportions, the no voice thing, no phone thing, and the fact I'm shaking like a shitting dog, is excellent. I cannot wait to eat a square meal for the first time in what seems like an age, super noodles on toast being the only thing I've eaten in a weekend is not healthy, neither is the amount of rum that's been consumed.
It's approaching 8pm, immediately after this dinner I'm going into hibernation for a while, if you don't hear from me tomorrow I've not given up, and I'm not dead (I hope) I'm just sleeping.
I actually do hope to hear from you soon, you know who you are.
