Saturday
The only thing I saw on Saturday was this guy at the Slam tent at some point in the afternoon.
I don’t know who he is, but I thought he was cracking. He wasn’t doing anything, mind you, just playing these relaxing dance tunes and moving slightly.
On the bus home later that day, I was up the top deck, a few rows from the back. Behind me were a bunch of grown up neds, and I heard an argument starting between them and some guy who said something to them about eckies. I don’t know what it was, but one of the neds threatened to slash the guy’s face. The ned’s mate told him to just leave the guy alone, “he’s tripping”. But the slasher ned just kept saying “you’re lucky I’m in a good mood, mate, or I’d slash your fucking face to pieces, swear tae God”.
Sunday
Sunday was the day of my Jet intro. It involved going on stage and going “Two two”, like I was doing a sound check. I predicted people would be booing, but just in case they weren’t (or not booing enough) I was going to say “Och, boo yourself” to get them going. Then when they started booing, I’d start singing “Don’t mess with my two two” to the tune of My Toot Toot.
I was fucking gasping to get it over and done with, because it was doing my head in. It’s one thing to go over my lines for a live Xander monologue again and again, but another to have “Don’t mess with my two two… don’t mess with my two two… I know you have another woman… so don’t mess with my two two” bouncing off the inside of my head all of Friday, all of Saturday and all of Sunday until I did the fucking thing.
I was due to go on at 7pm, and I met up with Jet a few hours before that, just chatting and fannying about and having wee moments alone where I thought “Don’t mess with my two two… don’t mess with my two two… I know you have another woman… so don’t mess with my two two”.
I showed the lead singer of Jet a picture of my mate Doug, because I once told him that they look the same. He thought so anaw, but you judge for yourself:
What famous people did I see bar Jet? The monkey looking one from the Scissor Sisters, Kasabian, and that’s it. I saw some people who were probably famous, but I didn’t know who they were, i.e. they had fancy haircuts and attitude. It was tempting to give one of them a black eye, so that I got in the papers, which would have helped sell tickets for my Fringe show, I reckon.
About 15 minutes before Jet were due to go on, we all headed round to the back of the tent, and I walked in just to check the crowd out.
And I shat it.
Naw, ah didnae really, but it made me a bit nervous. A packed tent, the lights on, crystal clear faces down the front looking up at the stage, waiting for Jet, not waiting for a jester to sing “Don’t mess with my two two”.
Then we all went up to the side of the stage cos it was almost time to go on. I spotted Lynn and her/our pals waving from the crowd, so that made me feel awright, then a guy waved his hand to say that that’s me on. And on I walked.
I had the place in absolute stitches. Everycunt singing along, cunts shouting “Limmy! Limmy! Limmy!”, I got the impression they wanted me up there more than Jet.
Naw.
I walked on, but I never got the booing I got at the Carling Academy, so I did the “two two” bit. One or two people booed. So then I said “Och, boo yourself”, as planned. That got a lot of cunts booing, so then I started the song. As I was doing it, I was listening for boos or cheers or laughter, and what I heard was a mix of 50% silence, 30% boos, 10% talking, and the other 10% a mix of laughter, cheering and other sounds that could have been good or bad.
And that’s what I wanted. You see, that’s what I wanted. Cos remember that my brand of comedy’s that unfunny kind, where you’re not meant to know if it’s funny or not. Genius.
When I finished, I looked down and saw someone give me the vicky with both hands, like Rick from The Young Ones. I said “Ladies and gentlemen, Jet” and off I went.
I hung about backstage for the first two songs, then I fucked off to get myself over to the Slam tent pronto to make up for the lost time due to me having “Don’t mess with my two two…” driving me mental for the past few days.
I saw the tail end of Felix Da Housecat, and he was good. Then on came Hardfloor, one of my favourite bands, and they were disappointing. They sounded exactly like what they do on their CDs, which should have been good, but there were too many beatless bits in between their songs and in the middle of them, so it felt a bit stop and starty. Plus it didn’t feel fast enough or loud enough, especially the squeaky stuff.
Then on came Dave Clarke, and it was fucking bang bang bang, which would have been excellent, but I was getting knackered by that point.
So I left and went to see Snow Patrol, and that was alright, it was a brilliant atmosphere but I’m not really into guitar music, you remember what Alice Deejay said.
On the bus back, there was some energetic English guy up the back talking non stop. Non stop. I don’t know what the accent was exactly, maybe London somewhere, but he sounded a bit like Judge Jules and Mike Mason from Bid TV. The highlight of the conversation between him and his Scottish mates was in the last 10 minutes of the journey:
Englishman: “Yeah, Morrissey’s a cunt, but as an artist he’s up there with… with… with Van Gogh and Picasso”.
Scotsman: “I agree with Picasso, but not Van Gogh, I wouldn’t say Van Gogh”
Englishman: “Yeah, I suppose. Not Van Gogh, Picasso. Because although Picasso didn’t invent Cubism, he perfected it. And Morrissey didn’t create the Indie scene, but he perfected it”
Scotsman: “I don’t know about perfecting it, because there was an inaccessible way about him”
Englishman: “Yeah, I suppose he was that way, inpenetrable, a bit too flowery”
Scotsman: “But with Morrissey, when he sang… when he sang… those words, those lyrics… you knew exactly what he was talking about.”
Englishman: “Yeah!”
I was just sitting there playing Monopoly on my phone listening to the lot of it for about 2 hours.
And that was the T in the Park experience for me, more or less. I know I’ve forgotten something, but I’ll shut up now anyway.
