Humid Sunday

Crosby, Stills & Nash are rocking the grey mullets of the Glastonbury Festival (not to mention Eavis' impressive beard), Brooooce was awesome and The Quo are readying their three-chord-cheese but I'm not at Pilton Farm. I'm sat here in Ealing watching the BBC's coverage, silently burning with jealousy. The highlight of my day isn't going to be pogo-ing to Blur (though I'll be in Hyde Park on Thursday; see you by the margarita stand, 4pm sharp), it'll be the moment my girlfriend gets out of the shower and I jump in to hose down my rancid body. The sudden humidity across London has played havoc with my pits and the chance to smell slightly less like an on-heat billy goat is the best I can look forward to on Glasto's closing day.

So CS&N (no Y) continue to sing their bitter-sweet blend of country & rock on the box and I continue to chide myself for once again not making it to a festival this year. Getting busy, getting old, someone said. Or didn't, but anyway, I understand the sentiment; there are love-bitten teenagers, younger than the t-shirt I'm wearing, dancing at the front and failing to ignore David Crosby's (literal) pot belly. And here I sit, gnarled with disappointment at another missed chance to cake myself in mud and drink warm cider in the rain.

Bloody luxury.

Let this entry stand as a pledge that next year, the year I turn 30, I will be a falafel-chomping, second-stage-snobbing, crusty-bummed festival-going muthafucker. Put me down for at least Glasto and Reading. I've got the tent on stand-by. I know all the tricks: soup kitchen for a cheap, nutritious breakfast; always know where your wet wipes are; avoid the horrors of the portaloos by dosing up with Imodium on Thursday night. Let's get this thing on.

How much longer is she going to be in that bathroom, anyway?

Ealing's getting hotter, CS&N are done and Passion Pit on the red button are making Boston proud. There clouds here are climbing into a storm and hopefully before long we'll get some cooling thunder. I'm sure they could take the rain over at Glastonbury - they're having the time of their lives and won't mind a little downpour. Hey, things are looking up here too. The shower's all mine.

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You'll notice an increase in the number of pointless blog entries in the coming weeks. Or you won't. Whatever. See if I care. Just tryin' to write a bit more is all. Ween myself off living my life in handy, Twitter-sized chunks.