20 March 2004 (Saturday): Good morning, good morning. It is a usual Saturday morning with nothing planned: I go buy the weekend newspapers in the morning and potter around.

In the afternoon, I head over to Azmei and Sarah’s house to try and repair their computer again. I thought I had it licked last week but within days, Sarah was moaning about it playing up again. I get there, and indeed it is screwed up again, it is barely open to log into. I manage that though and mess around with the settings in Winconfig. I also run Panda again but this time it does not come across any viruses etc. The task is long winded and means a lot of time sitting around waiting for the computer to do things. I stare vacantly out of Sarah’s bedroom window while also making small talk. This is a pretty surreal environment, wow this is not the bedroom of a 28 year old woman, it’s not a decent child’s bedroom. And it is hyper tidy with no actual belongings, I can’t imagine anyone having ever seen any action in this room or on this bed.

Four hours later, I throw in the towel on the computer as the family settles down to a kebab dinner (I guess my invite was lost in the post, ho ho).

Bemused, I go home to another Saturday night at home living life in the fast lane.

21 March 2004 (Sunday): I feel like the most criticised man in history. I guess I must be doing something right then.

Another message, another non-response. I could have been more forward but that may have been too much. Who am I kidding, either way I’m going to arse things up and humiliate myself. It’s all about timing and timing is out of my control. I need preparation, I need to be prepared, and timing does not assist this.

On Friday she called me the name of somebody who once had a crush on her and semi stalked her. That’s the worst sign of all. How can two people so self-absorbed ever make room in each other’s lives for one another? I was around hers for four and a half hours Saturday afternoon but who’s counting. A ray of hope, her sister embarrassed her over her hygiene in front of me. Was the risk of grossing me out and turning me off or just a way too high threshold of sensitivity? Fingers crossed the former.

To date there have been three good opportunities to kiss her, to turn this into something real. It has been well over a year now of not knowings and pregnant pauses inserted into my most enjoyable moments of more than the last twelve months. I type this as an admission, a confession using words and language I cannot muster in real life nee vocal vocabulary. I am not oral, I am anal.

On a brighter note, today Millwall fucking thumped West Ham, it is almost embarassing. Millwall blasted them 4-1 and managed to miss two penalties in the process. I listened to game on BBC London (via the internet) at my parents and I could not believe what I was hearing. West Ham started things off by scoring an own goal for Millwall before Cahill got a couple and Chadwick knocked on in. The atmosphere on the radio sounded absolutely killer and apparently the West Ham fans became a bit upset to say the least and police horses were called onto the pitch. Ha ha, Premier league team my arse.

22 March 2004 (Monday): I march into work in the knowledge that yesterday Millwall beat West Ham 4-1 and that nothing can top that. Rema rema.

Today I am continuing work on a job called Acme Plumbing. This work is not accountancy, it is bookkeeping. An accountant is a qualified professional whereas a bookkeeper is any ignorant bod with some time on their hands. So there goes with my attitude to today’s work.

This week is Mark And Lard’s last week on Radio One, a nation should mourn.

At lunchtime Stevo, Ivan and I go for lunch. Stevo suggests the new place called Nandos. When we arrive there, there is a man outside running around in a chicken suit! The chicken asks us if we would like a free meal and I begin to think I am tripping. The food is fantastic and the price is right, this is the best way to eat out.

The evening is wasted, spent playing Pro Evolution Soccer on Playstation.

23 March 2004 (tuesday): Another day at work, another day finding me working on the car crash client/job that is Acme Plumbing. The guy is really likeable but his records are terrible (non-existent) and this is just the kind of job/client that working on causes a person (an accountant) to lose the will to live.

In the evening I get home bored and lonely. Rightly or wrongly I register on the singles website MuslimFriendship.com. Am I bad boy?

Later on I find myself staggering around cyberspace and the AOL internet chat rooms. My god these are moronic, full of stupid people it seems. I opt out of the themed rooms and go to a thirties singles chat room where I eventually wind up IMing with a woman with the screename Yoj Noisivid. She is called Paula and we talk for a good spell, discussing real things of importance in life and she is tipsy from drinking a whole bottle of wine. After revealing that I am not really 30 (she being 38), she eventually sends me a photo and she is gorgeous. I send one and I am not. Soon afterwards, in the late hours of the evening, we go to bed (seperately).

np: Kevin Shields - City Girl

25 March 2004 (Thursday): It officially begins on a Thursday in March. Work had been poor and I was very fucked off. On the Wednesday my company soccer team came off with yet another fine victory thanks to my valiant performance (as usual) in goal (pro-Millwall). Thursday however had turned out less so fun and I was hella relieved to be having a break/mini holiday from it all. My current flailing non-relationship at work with the charming but empty Mcslim had me distraught yet again, pre my ATP holiday. And this was then coupled with my evening's visit with my analyst during which my counsellor seemed happy to suggest/tell me that I wasn't putting enough effort into our sessions and that, maybe, I should push off. Insensitive cow (needless to say though I since turned that little routine around).

Post brain scan, I headed to Mr Boyle's house for some pre-parties party. Sadly I find Mr Boyle unfortunately hung-over after a previous evening wining and dining at the Japanese embassy in London. I knew all this, as the night before I had telephoned him about arrangements this weekend only to have him egg ME on to dare HIM into pissing on a Rolls Royce. As a side note, when I also telephoned Mr Coogan that night on my mobile from the Asda car park, I successfully convinced him that I was dogging at that exact minute/moment in time. Back to Mr Boyle. Talking when neither of us really wanted to (wrong headspace); things were made harder when his Dad came home from a day dining etc at the Houses Of Parliament (the place on the HP sauce bottles I believe). This is not an intellectual plane that I am really suited to and after arguing just why Tony Blair's meeting with Gadaffi/Gadaffy has been responsible for the new spelling of the latter's surname, wires got crossed and it was misunderstood/believed that I was once punched by John Peel at ATP 2000 and that at Reading 95 I shit myself (no and no!). Swiftly I found myself ushered into the lounge where we sat watching a movie called “The Ladies Man” while also mutually growing migraines in our skulls. To be honest though I found myself digging “The Ladies Man” ("would you like a fish sandwich?") as each time Mr Boyle was expounding "this is terrible", all of which eventually resulted in the skipping of scenes just to see what Tiffani Amber Thiessen is looking like these days and bring about it's premature ending (for now). I will now never know of the Ladies Man's ultimate fate, Hollywood never intended for things to be this way! I went home hurt and with a raging headache, eager to sleep and get well soon.

26 March 2004 (Friday): The best laid plans of mice and men. With my head like a sieve, in preparation I spend many hours wondering just what it is that I have forgotten to pack. Similarly I also stress that the boot of my new Ford Focus isn't quite as big as the one in my old Escort. I pre-warn people "don't bring too much!" It's no surprise when soon I/we are running late. Early promises of leaving at 10AM are exposed as ridiculous, not least as when Dr Stevo, my work colleague that looks like Alan Titschmarsh, phones me up to borrow my Millwall supporters card. Eventually I round up a car full of people (I think I picked up the right kids) and around 11.30AM (!) we are finally making the proposed pre-ATP stop off at a supermarket, our commerce of choice today being Asda (oh yes).

Who'd have thunk a supermarket would be busy on a Friday! As a result, shopping takes forever and when we hit the tills, everyone seems to be busy buying "sensible" food and instead I am spending double everyone else, just on booze. Whoops. Just past midday we finally get going and I begin to wonder if I had actually remembered to close my front door. The road is fucking hard and also its really tough, today though will really be remembered as the last day of Mark and Lard on the Radio and we listen to their last show on the radio with, personally, the largest of lumps in my throat. As we fly along motorways everyone seems to think I am joking when I'm saying to them "I can't remember the EXACT way to Camber Sands". We have a map but little else, especially a clue as to direction. As we left Colchester I predicted (somewhat blindly) "we'll be there for 2pm". So, share in my joy when at just past 2.00 pm 26 March 2004, there was the sight: CAMBER SANDS.

(the following events are recalled/recollected thanks to the photographs on my mobile phone and text messages from my "Bitch In Dubai" Sara).

As we drive into Camber Sands, as usual it felt like driving once more into another world. At the gates, security let us down this year not pulling their little joke "have you got any drugs or alcohol on you? Do you want some?" Inside the Pontins complex all time seems to collapse and watches become slightly irrelevant, only for the use of guiding you towards vague stage times. Imagine the village from The Prisoner crossed with “Arbeit Mach Frei” on the gates. I say we get to Camber Sands at 2.00 but somehow we didn't get into our chalet until past 3.00. Looking around Pontins Camber Sands it looked more weather beat than ever and soon comments rang out "its kinda Auschwitz-esqe isn't it" and "you really wouldn't bring your kids here would you?” What's this, the voice of common sense/reality or us acting like toffs? Instead you decide “I can't be arsed, time to start drinking”. As a precursor, and warning against repeating certain drunken faux pas and injuries that have already occurred in 2004, Mr Coogan pre-advises (but does not adopt) the motto "no booze before sundown". It sounded a great idea Wednesday night. After discovering our electricity was already a pound down, everyone sets about unpacking their provisions while I pull out my big box of Stella Artois "Wifebeaters" and dig in, my reward for driving my car for the huge long journey of, oh, two hours.

As everyone gets busy getting house proud (that or wrecked) it soon became apparent we are already missing bands. Missed band number one for the weekend: Envy. All apologies but I've heard their record and I can do without it but now playing were Part Chimp, an act to savour. We mass debated about seeing but then would up going “nah let's continue to set up our fort.....I mean chalet.” (As a side note, Part Chimp did a post-ATP show in Colchester shortly afterwards and I went to that, stayed sober and I can say they are still knocking out amazing sets/shows). Eventually we get over our apparent agoraphobia and me, Mr Boyle and Mr Baldwin (no sign of Mr Coogan) venture out to seem some bands (our official fourth chalet person Tristan being long lost in/to music). We arrive and see that we've missed Sonic Boom not sounding like Spacemen 3 but do slip into the reality of seeing Converge as our first band of ATP 2004. Oh my, this is peculiar. On stage is a band just going through the motions it seems, only managing to sound like Pantera back in 1995. One second I like it, the next second I hate it. At one particular point the singer announces and declares "thanks everyone of you for listening to us, coming out to see us and buying our records, YOU ARE THE ENGINE!" Yes, I am indeed the engine. The engine of what though, that's yet to be discovered. Bemused we leave early (the beginning of an ill-mannered theme of leaving sets midway through all weekend).

Downstairs we find Acid Mothers Temple. Now this is better, freaky crazy looking Japanese men doing Hawkwind and overdosing on wah pedal. And then they go and sing some kind of ancient Japanese/Chinese folk song, a real stinker. We leave to return to the warm safety of our chalet, to drink and watch TV. (the more eagle eyed and knowledgeable of you will note that Acid Mothers Temple's set started at 16.30 and ended at 17.15 and Converge's set started at 17.30 per the official programme. Am I lying about events already or just a little confused?) When we get back to chalet 584, Mr Coogan has arrived, albeit currently sans bracelet and thus sans chalet (a home). It seems the hidden agenda of this festival is to perform Al Pacino impressions with a vengeance and I have to admit it is kinda infectious. With the first day now reaching dinnertime, the decision is made to cook instead of go see bands. I can't complain/argue/disagree, I am already pissed and spinning while wrongly the sun (daytime) is still out in a blaze of glory. I play up like a child, running around the chalet and scaring those unfamiliar with my antics. I perform my (almost) annual trick of hiding in the ATP wardrobe and jumping out at people, scaring (and scarring) them shitless in the process.

Obviously the TV comes on and after eating a minor feast we all sit down and commit a major crime of watching a movie of one of the bands on show (Lightning Bolt) instead of actually going to see one of the bands on show. Whatever, our group found itself stoned and heading towards toasted, myself in particular. We discuss whether to go see Trans Am but we fail to motivate ourselves sufficiently to leave our “home”. A big problem is that when you are pissed, telly just seems SO good and when The Goonies is the next movie on the Mogwai TV channel, we become harder to budge than ever. I only know that The Goonies was on the TV because I took a picture of it at 9.19 on my phone. However it was only 7.01 when I took the photo of Mr Boyle being drunk by a Stella bottle. We had jizzed two hours and really had to get moving.
We barely realise that we miss sets by Trans Am, James Orr Complex and/or Papa M. Instead when we arrive back in venue land, we're lucky enough to catch us some Turbonegro. Oh what the fuck are they about? People around me comment "Guns N' Roses" but forget it, Axl was much better than that, although (apparently) the singer did do a great quote at/to the crowd "I am not so much impressed, more depressed". Downstairs we went and into the arms of a Cat Power set. Couldn't hear it, couldn't see it. We continued to the bar and re-ignited old acquaintances with old flames long extinguished. Done with that, we trudge back upstairs to see the current state of affairs of Mogwai. It is actually fantastically comforting to hear them again, so on form and respecting the audience enough to play old favourites they've probably played a thousand times before. I remember at ATP 2000 Mogwai played the same stage and the setting was magnificent, like inside an observatory at night, and then they went and choked. This time round though I find myself totally into it, perhaps it was perfect timing.
I have to admit I didn't make it through their entire set, upstairs just proved too airless and humid, and before I passed out I left an unendurable environment with my life (god knows how hot it must have been on stage). We leave however feeling good and happy with our lot. For the remainder of their set Mr Boyle and I sit downstairs and people watch, playing “spot the pikey”, the indie post rock equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel. Once done, we headed back to our comfy chalet only to discover Mr Coogan and Mr Baldwin hadn't had as much fortune as us. In fact, their expressions, upon our arrival back at the chalet, suggested that one of them had just had their life seriously threatened. That wasn't so though and soon we were all feeling better, although when I pulled the sofa bed out and Mr Baldwin tried to push it back in, with me inside it, the ensuing crush really did threaten my goodwill and vibes. Obviously the TV got switched on and (wahey!) Battle Royale was on the Mogwai channel. Being old and boring I stayed in and had my own TV party while Mr Coogan and Mr Baldwin went back out to exact some revenge on the indie rock establishment. After Battle Royale, that fucking god awful Bjork film came on the TV so I gave up and hit the sack, only to be rudely awaken by the dustmen as they came in at the early hours of Saturday morning.

27 March 2004 (Saturday): Just like a bad dream, I wake up on the sofa Saturday morning and there they are: Mr Coogan and Mr Baldwin both asleep next to me. I promptly check my behind for slipped in cock and find that it is safe. It is still the morning (8 or 9) when I get up and I am feeling fine, no hangover just an enormous sense of wellbeing (I thank you). While the others sleep, I go get Saturday newspapers. I love the Saturday newspapers more than Avid Merrion loves celebrities. I find it very amusing that there are no broadsheets, until of course I realise that means I won't be getting the Guardian TV guide this week. Outside in the Pontins world, it is quiet and peaceful. I feel alone like I have awoken in the movie 28 Days Later and last night everyone's behaviour was proof of the existence of the “Rage” virus in our country. Back in the chalet, armed with a Sun and a Star, without consideration for any others I put wrestling on the tube, hoping to stir up some signs of life.

Ultimately it turns out that Mr Boyle and I have the most life in ourselves, so we head to beach, which is something I was kind of hoping to avoid this year (sand does not leave my footwear with ease). And just as Bill Hicks said: “the beach is where dirt meets water.” I'm sorry but I am unimpressed. I lived in Walton-on-the-Naze for three years and never went to the beach there once. After playing fifteen year old coin-ops (Operation Wolf and Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles) we head back to the chalet where people begin making moves, primarily to visit the inhabitants in Mr Coogan's other chalet. I wear my Millwall shirt, primarily to upset people. When we arrive there, Colin Kearney is just emerging from a shower wearing only a towel and he refuses to give me a huge while Neil Johnson and Phil Welding are getting busy cooking breakfast and weighing up the consequences of drinking some Johnson homebrew potato wine, complete with bits in it. Graciously breakfast is served to us all and suddenly it hits us all what a great time ATP is. Our mass debate sees the first birth of the event, our new seven piece band called Foxy Boxing. Rumours abound of an impromptu Bilge Pump gig happening in their chalet and peoples (particularly Mr Coogan) begin to look rather concerned and worried. Best of times. Time passes but for hours I could watch Neil Johnson wrestling with an old stereo, trying to play Cass McCombs.

With the event of bands starting up, we head out for some music, especially to catch glimpse of Mike Watt. Downstairs and playing first, this is Mike Watt & The Jom & Terry Show. It's an excellent set of what seems mainly covers, so it's all very Minutemen and therefore very good, better than almost anything else you could like. I am really taken aback by Mike Watt's appearance, he looks too thin compared to what I was expecting/believed and now he comes complete with comedy handlebar moustache. Silly man. It suggests just how good the set actually is when I remain listening for the duration (albeit we missed the start turning up late). Promptly we head upstairs for the Boredoms. I approach them with trepidation knowing them to be Melt Banana crossed with wank (fair comment). I also hear them described as an arrogant crappy cult band. True? Rumours abound in the already rammed upstairs including: "there’s tents onstage". What? After such anticipation it begins. Lights flash and the ground hums. Little happens other than a series of beeps and suddenly I feel like I am in the climax of Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. I hum/beep along and the stranger next to me laughs, acknowledging (as per usual) that I am right. After a slow start, things get going and it begins to feel like Tomorrow Never Knows, a lot! Our patience gets strained as the set never really seems to get going and we head off.

Downstairs we catch a quick glimpse of what is on, Fred Anderson and Chad Taylor, two real deal black guys doing free jazz. So Tortoise actually are jazz then it would suggest. I honestly think it sounds fantastic for the brief moment I pay attention but really, wrongly, sadly we weren't in the mood (but at least we weren't as discouraging as certain elements in the audience, ahem). Nice! Now here is where it probably all went wrong. Wha' happened? I don't know. Ultimately I guess I had a drink. First we reunited with Kearney in his chalet (best trash someone else's chalet I guess). I can gather some indication as to what the time was as someone was fiddling with the tranny for the football on the radio and then likewise at our chalet I can recall us checking the football scores on the TV and we all thinking that Chelsea had lost. That would cover from 3 to 5. From here on, my chalet mates cooked and I ate their food, yum yum yum. On Tortoise TV was Pennies From Heaven, so that was gash and not worth watching, therefore I drink. As the sun goes, so do we and up popped/arrived Colin Kearney dressed in the latest Starsky and Hutch chic, right in our chalet. We found ourselves treated to his comedy stylings, made all that more funnier by his attire and accent but I can't remember any of his jokes.
Eventually we finally got around to seeing a band and that band was the much mentioned Lungfish. I don’t know, what the fuck are they are about? Just weird to me. They're the golden goose and yet I don't get it, slow droning music accompanying a singer that couldn't look more out of place (and yet in place) who looks like the Grandfather/Uncle from the Smurf Records, which probably would have been more fun to listen to at the end of the day. Still everyone else is in awe which is fantastic to me, care in the community and all that. Needless to say I/we don't stand the pace and leave before the end heading back to our chalet via the shop. At this point I desperately need chocolate. Whilst there I drunkenly buy my Mcslim girl friend (but not girlfriend) a gift, a Chuckles the Pontins monkey key ring because the name Chuckles fits (she is a miserable cunt).

Here arrives the point of "wha' happened?" We had finally hit the Captain Morgan and now were sailing. And worse our mixer for the rum was Blue Charge (lemon incest, cranberry hell and original flavours). And making the moment worse, it was a real freak out to see that the Vicar Of Dibley was closing in on number one on the top of the all time British comedy shows chart, scary. The room began spinning and so did I. I started to fail to recognise the people in my room and basically it was all going tits up. Elsewhere: Mike Watt and the Secondmen: missed them. Bobby Conn: missed him. I do remember being present for the start of the Lightning Bolt set and feeling very tender. Of course I couldn't see the band because the twats play on the dance floor ("ew, where will they set up?"). I think we stuck around for half their set and got fucked off and bored in the heat and the hate. That said, they are an amazing band based on the movie we watched on the TV in our chalet Friday night.
What really happened now though? This is lost in the midst of time. Did we attempt to stay for the beginning of Tortoise's set or did we head back to the chalet straight away? I suspect the latter. Unfortunately the worry of who was going to win the all time best British sitcom award probably weighed most and beckoned me back to the chalet and safety of TV. The fact certainly had me hitting the bottle it seems and this was the exact point where the spinning had to stop and the detox fly out. I suspect all in all, on Saturday I took it a bridge too far with one last large swig of the Captain, it was time to blow chunks. I tore out of our first floor chalet for fresh air and lent over the balcony.

For some reason I was angry. Was I angry at myself? Angry at the world? Angry at indie rock for no longer holding much interest for me? Or was I just angry that In Sickness And In Health had really been stiffed on the sitcom awards. I was angry and not vomiting, I had something inside of me and it just had to come out. I think perhaps this was the point that I pissed off the stairwell for yuks. Thank God, Allah, Krishna, Buddha that I was alone and no one received my golden shower, the world already has enough innocent bystanders. I remember deciding this was a good point/moment to phone my mum to tell her that I was all right. The real sequence of events however is sadly very muddled and very hazed, a genuine blur (“Parklife!”). Eventually out came my post rock vom. Entire chunks of other people's pasta hit the floor running. I started so I finished, I heaved four times big style over the balcony. The people below must have wondered "what the fuck?" comparing the show to the time it rained frogs in one of those other countries that you see on television. I returned back inside the chalet exuberant, exhilarated by my detoxation. Inside there were faces I did not recognise and my high was soon knocked down by some butter head refusing to shake my hand (an act of hostility).

Motions were made towards actually catching some of Tortoise's set and I, with my second wind now well in place, shot to the task and headed to the upstairs stage with vengeance. I say this but actually I cannot remember any of the steps towards upstairs, especially negotiating getting past security and actually climbing the stairs. I was on autopilot. Fortunately we did return to find Tortoise in full flow and, joy of joys, there they were playing my favourite Tortoise song. I enjoyed their performance, even without the ability to stand straight. Inside I was doing the drunken motion circle which probably looked, to an any lucky onlookers, like the latest in interpretative dances. That, or some lout on the razz with too much going on inside of him. Still, it all ended jubilantly and the night now seemed really young, this was the one to go for it. Mr Baldwin and Mr Coogan were acting like their usual precocious selves, like pissed up versions of Sam and Frodo in Lord Of The Rings. They hooked up and latched onto some girl called Lisa who used to be in a band called Twist (a YTS version of Hole). They possessed a genuine glint in their eyes, they had found their ring. Myself, I just lost track, obviously I was not cured of my illness just yet. And maybe this was why I lost Coogan and Baldwin. Was I unable to keep up with the pace or did they just dump me? You guess.

Luckily I crossed paths with Marceline and that was able to guide me back down to sea level as the real come down period ensued. Upon finishing with her I was lucky enough to bump into Joe from Bilge Pump, which pretty much sums up the great thing about ATP, you are always bound to bump into someone you know sooner or later. Done with him I went for a wander (though probably more a stagger) and bumped into Colin Starsky & Hutch and with him, a whole load of other cronies who were off to have a party in chalet 327, home of Foxy Boxing.

Upon arriving at Noel's House Party, from out of nowhere someone had some blow. Never one to turn anything down and cause insult, I dove straight in. One problem though, no one was lending me their rolled up pound notes with which to chase the dragon. Myself, I was a too pissed to actually roll up my five spot (tight wad). After many efforts, it finally got there and I hit pay dirt with rocket fuel. This was where things really got good. Moments later Baldwin and Coogan turned up with Lisa, crazy for some glue. Dang mate, just too late. Still I was feasting on it all. It really sooths the ego when people are telling you how great you are and quoting your Bob Tilton remix and telling you that it is a “masterpiece”. And then I was actually told I was a “legend”. That never happens. I love it, I love you all, just give me more blow. The place was hot. More rumours abounded about a Bilge Pump set being performed from this chalet and I soon realised that this was it, or at least as good as it was going to get. At one point I find myself shouting "blowjob" without even realising it and then spending an eternity wondering why. As a result I got peculiar looks. I was also sitting, talking gibberish to a ginger person I have been running from all weekend. As a rule, I don't like them gingers, they is sneaky. Did I hear someone say they had some horse?

With so much energy around us, we deem the chalet insufficient to fulfil all our social needs so we head back to Queen Victoria bar because "that's where the stars hang out" We arrive there and immediately I feel lost. I see a Mogwai, then all Part Chimp. I'm sure there are others around but I just don't recognise musicians anymore (although I could pull Neil Harris, Paul Ifill and Tim Cahill out of a crowd of thousands). I see the guy from Lungfish looking shot to bits, acting just as bemused as me by our surroundings. I then saw Mike Watt and his silly moustache, finally I was in awe. I don't really feel like speaking to performers (or anyone really) this weekend but him, him I almost go up to, if for nothing else, to thank him for the interview he did for me for No Pictures five years ago. I edge closer to him and then finally we are pretty much face to face. We stare at each other for ten seconds and I just give, I have lost the power to speak to him, to anyone. A sad tale that.

By now Mr Baldwin is mentally pissed and Mr Coogan is starting to get down on females some more. Mr Baldwin is up for food, he the man. At some point we check out the downstairs dance floor and it is dead, so instead we chow down on Cheap Ass Fried Chicken. By now I'm calming down but Bad Baldwin is now in full flow and insisting I have some of CAFC's mustard ("it's fucking lovely but don't pay for it"). I get my food, something resembling KFC and chips and ask for my mustard. Apparently they don't sell it, so what the fuck are they giving Baldwin? I look down and Baldwin is putting curry sauce on his chips but he's insisting that its mustard. I submit and compromise at curry sauce and then the gimp charges me 20p or something, "but he told me not to pay for it?". No dice.

There is nowhere to eat our food so we go outside and sit at the benches. Bad idea, it's fucking freezing. Mr Baldwin bitches me out and tells me to hurry up and eat fast. I scoff like a person with an eating disorder and soon we find ourselves back inside the Queen Victoria where incidents transpire and Mr Baldwin and myself promptly find ourselves with Mr Coogan back outside on the benches once more freezing our tits off and worse, without any food and or any other kind of sweetener. Albeit I am freezing, I am actually in pretty good spirits so I suggest we head back to chalet for warmth and safety, which eventually the others oblige to. Returning inside, it looks like Five Easy Pieces is on the tube, something nowhere near worth bothering about. Beaten by the elements I turn in while the others appear to speed off back out in a spectacular attempt at saving (savaging) the night, the time now being well past 3 AM.

28 March 2004 (Sunday): Sunday morning just how Lou Reed saw it I expect. Except I am awoken by a text message at 6.59 AM: "You still off your nut on coke? Was it any good or shite gear? Hung-over 2 shit but good day?" Could have done without the rude awakening to be honest. Beyond that I fail to sleep much further into Sunday and soon I am out doing the newspaper run while the chimps sleep in the chalet. I didn't hear Mr Baldwin or Mr Coogan return but obviously they did. I return from the paper run, via taking a photo of my amazing vomit, and the room remains dead. I flick through the entirety of the Sunday papers and the room remains dead (remember of course, no broadsheets at Camber Sands so it's a quick job anyway). I am reduced to making myself breakfast loudly with other people's food as a method of stirring people into action. Eventually people start to murmur by my third lap of reading the Sundays. By now I am bored and eager to get going, time is really flying and soon bands will be starting up beginning with Shellac.

While everyone is content to slowly cook breakfast/brunch/full-on lunch I feel the real urge to go see Shellac (considering they were the reason I chose to come to this weekend instead of the infinitely better looking second weekend). I go alone, feeling subtly betrayed by my hung-over chalet sharers. Upon entering the downstairs I find it horrifying to see just how rammed it all is and I barely get a spot stood sideways to the stage. As I entered the hall word was that Lightning Bolt were playing a set from out of their chalet. I had this recommended to me, I decline. Instead I chose to bake inside the hall and at least take in some of Shellac. Their first set seemed almost like a going through the motions process and as well as opportunity to play several new songs. All reports from their Thursday London set was that they were a bit sloppy but had a stack of very fine new numbers. I can't remember if it was this set or the later but Bob Weston did come up with a great joke in "what's black and blue and gives good head? My son" I didn't even realise he had a son! I tried to get into them but for the first time I failed, things were just too uncomfortable. The new songs were hit and miss but the song about a radio show sounded horribly wicked to me and proved the main highlight of the set. That and Todd Trainer's apparent persistence in remaining a Dot Cotton look-alike.

After the set I headed to outside the Queen Victoria to the benches where distros were now being set up. I listened to the indie rock equivalent of Abu Hamza go on about nothing and sucker a few people in. By now some of my chalet mates were around, all full of beans. I purposely chose not to drink on the Sunday. I have to admit I did over do it on the Saturday and I had a bad taste in the back of my mouth/throat, actually left over by the blow. Once again I failed to really socialise, instead I was a spectator. Musically, sadly the line-up Shellac had chosen for their day proved really uninspiring. The next band up were French Toast, with their Fugazi and Make Up links but bets were down they'd not be all that hot snot. Mr Coogan really wanted some AC/DC, which actually would sound really good as an alternative. While bands and individuals performed all afternoon, we just choose instead to hang out in the sun and do jack. At some point we checked the Shellac TV channel and only saw Barry Lyndon and no one wanted any piece of that. We watched Eastenders for a little while and it was pointed out that I look like Janine Butcher (thus the picture on Friendster), they had had a few.

Bored we soon left to return to sitting on the benches. And we were not alone in sitting outside the Queen Victoria, there was Mike Watt and Chan Marshall about as well (not together mind). Mike Watt looked like the new Mike Watt, looking as if he were enjoying it all and probably thinking "fucking England is getting weirder and weirder". Chan Marshall though was amazing looking, I really was breath taken by her. And I had noticed her long before I realised that she was the Cat Power lady. Go figure. We went for a wander and had another round of air hockey and more Simpson coin-op action. Although I was going the day without drinking, my booze hound friends were not as disciplined and soon we were to be found inside the Queen Victoria, much too early in the day. On the screens was the Old Firm derby of Celtic vs Rangers but we didn't pay that much attention because both teams are crap.
Here Mr Coogan collared John Mogwai for some conversation and when our drinks were gone we headed back to the chalet and Mr Coogan coaxed John Mogwai back with him. To be honest he must have wondered where the fuck he was judging by his reaction because we knew him but he didn't really know us (except Mr Coogan), it almost felt as if we had kidnapped a celebrity. He had good gear though and I had found my new best friend. After a hit off his super pipe, I was toasted but then came more (excessive) rounds of bifta. Tristan also gave us some of his stash and eventually were cooking and eating hash like proper dope fiends with semen stains on our trousers.

John Mogwai made his moves out eventually while us fools stayed behind giggling like gimps and missing such great acts as Whisper In The Noise, Entrance, Atombombpocketknife and whoever replaced Luke Haines (we will never know). Instead we all caught the end of Rushmore on Shellac TV and then the beginning of the Big Lebowski. I truly felt like The Dude. When Mr Coogan was cooking up he accidentally scalded his hand and after a few mentions I cracked the sickest joke ever and couldn't stop laughing for about thirty minutes either way. Not everyone would appreciate it though and therefore the joke remains a secret. We pretty much stayed put for a hell of a long time once toasted. I had gear to the point that I felt short of breath and I was about to explode in a cloud of my own vomit. I'm not sure if the others felt this way but I suspect they were ok, they were drinking. Our stir-fry pasta meals were now taking a turn for the worse being devoid of any sauces and morale was now beginning to falter.

We headed out to somewhere as a group and we spent some time at the amusements, cack handily playing the Simpsons coin-op and air hockey asking random strangers "do you know John Mogwai? What a great guy". I wanted some quidney cup action on the air hockey front but it wasn't to be (and probably for the best as Mr Baldwin, pissed as, smashed me to the ground on the field of airplay). Elsewhere we could just about hear McLusky playing but boy are they super shit. Stoned and short of breath, we ended up in the least of smart places, the sweltering upstairs hall. Time passed without noticing and soon we were lying on the floor almost passing out as Arcwelder did their set in the distance. As per two years ago, it was a very good Husker Du -esqe set which Mr Baldwin likened to Nirvana, although we didn't really pay that much mind to them. We moved to the back of the hall where it appeared darker and therefore perhaps cooler (a shade inside?). Not really so but a lot more comfortable than being trodden on by strangers en route to the bar. Stupidly we flaked out upstairs instead of checking out Uzeda playing downstairs, never mind.

Happily I stayed put at the back for the remainder of events until Shellac finished their set while Mr Coogan and Mr Baldwin went off for more adventures. I think I probably got a better view of Shellac than those closer to the stage, in the midst of the shuffle. Their second set was much improved on the first, feeling more to the point with the songs everyone knows. The highlights for me were the pounding versions of Crow and Wingwalker. Again they performed the new song about the single person radio show ("CAN YOU HEAR ME? IS THIS THING ON?") And in the space of two hearings in one day I pretty much had a new favourite song. It was a bit of a real endurance staying up for the whole set after so much pot but it ultimately was worth the effort to see them doing Spoke for the first time (for me) and how they simultaneously dismantle the drum kit with Trainer still playing it at the end (how playful). Its sad to say but it was an enormous relief when their set was finished and I just headed for my bed before I fell asleep somewhere unhealthy.

Back in the safety of the chalet I flipped on the tube to find the climax of Animal House, the perfect way to end things. People started to phone me asking where I was, but my party was over. Everyone else however still felt hot and up for more partying. I told some people that Animal House was on and when a few returned to find Fargo on instead, it just made me feel bad. As I was really passing out, Greg and Kat Kitten called round to say "hi" at the end of things, them finding me not at my best. After they left, I fell asleep only to be awoken a few times during the night by Frodo and Sam but pretty much that was it; basically I'm too old and can't take it anymore.