Beacons 2014

I can't stand the rain ... against my window - that's Tina Turner for you but it's obvious that the bow-legged one with the large pipes has never camped. Rain against your window is fine but rain inside your tent is not. Beacons, a three day festival in Skipton, offered some of the most challenging camping conditions we'd ever encountered in the form of the fag end of Hurricane Bertha. This flatulent beast ran amok through the site on Sunday evening, shutting down areas, causing mass muddage and big leaks. Camping in it on the night itself with the legs of the tent going all akimbo was an act of extreme endurance. Thank god for downers otherwise the puddle in one side of our temporary home could have been called a problem.

At the same time, while we'd never been wetter, Beacons was a totally fucking wicked vibe which made you remember that London is not the centre of the universe. Far from it. This event, catering for a fraction of the size of the audience crammed into similar musically bent parties in the capital, showed you could get fairly splattered but without feeling like a bog eyed hen in a really small cage. While it was a highly debauched couple of days, it was all tinged with an air of the civilised. Our trip from the train station to pitched tent took minutes rather than hours. The beer (the beautifully titled Ringmaster) was much nicer and cheaper than the Turborg we’d become accustomed to. No queues for either the bars or bogs was another large tick in the Beacons box for sure.

The music was also totally on point with the likes of Fat White Family, Neneh Cherry, Ralph Lawson, A Love from Outer Space and Jackmaster filling our ears and minds with total stimulation. Sleaford Mods also kicked some serious arse with their twitchy, speed-fuelled rage against the 9-5.

While the day after the (final night) before was hard, it also meant we got to experience the joys of Skipton. Turns out you can get a full English for less than £3, a juicy pie for less than a pound and a three bedroom mansion with a yard and garden for the same price tag as a bread bin in Stoke Newington. To Right Move and don’t spare the horses.

Vera Lynn

Wiggy

Looking fresh

Steez

Dinner at the Savoy darling

Who eats at the Savoy on a Wednesday night? Well we did via work. Apparently the meal was supposed to have been for Chic dude Nile Rodgers earlier in the year but it never happened and the booking remained. We were driven by the ghost of Richard Harris and the lure of free scran and booze. There was so much free nosh going that we had two of everything… get in ma gob…

A delicate bream

Flowers in a leaf for dessert. Great

I want to ride my bicycle

Back in July I attempted to channel the spirit of Bradley Wiggins and cycle from London to Brighton. Our buddy Tim Spain is doing a load of charitable shit for the RNIB over the year and offered to guide a select few of us down to the coast in exchange for a tenner for charidee. It was hard to ignore such an act of do-gooding generosity so I signed up and spent the week getting my shit together – borrowing a bike with working gears, washing the cycling pants to protect the precious ring piece and not getting totally shit faced the night before (five pints natch) all fed into the extensive prep.

When I made it to Clapham just in time for the 8am kick off brandishing a Mcdonald’s I was confronted by loads of pros in lycra. Despite Tim’s assertions that anyone could do this and it wasn’t a race, it was clear that some folk were taking this seriously. Within five minutes one dude had already tutted at my set of (admittedly overly small) wheels and offered to put my seat up when I came to him with me ‘knees screaming’ (his words). Back off bro!

We set off with his scornful words ringing in the ears before we conversed again – ‘Do you do these sort of long rides often?’ was the question. ‘I don’t want to brag, but for me, this isn’t really a long ride,’ he bragged. Wow.

The ride itself was a hot and sweaty affair with plenty of hills to drag ourselves up. The Mcdonalds definitely helped and at one point we went perilously close to Gatwick Airport before a brief stop for a shandy. The real killer was the Beacon, a fucking humongous mountain near the end of the 60 mile ride. It’s well fucking steep and many a cyclist apparently prides themselves on getting all the way up it without dismounting the steed. I couldn’t care less and jumped off after ten metres of incline. Whatevs Beacon! It’s only a bike ride!

The cruise into Brighton which followed was fairly luxurious as were the six pints we had on arrival at the coast, the four cans on the train and the three more cans at home. Nice one team.  

View from the cockpit

Wheels + Mcdonalds sausage, egg and cheese bagel just in view

Pit stop

Back of the queue

Shandy town

View from the Beacon

Hello Brighton

Dicktation

Things have been very quiet on here but in real life shit has been proper bubbling. Oh yeah. Days in, nights out, beige foodstuffs, discovering Ru Paul's Drag Race, noting the charms of Jack Bauer in 24 and getting even deeper into cheese. Here are a few 'moments' recorded and broadcast for the sake of posterity. 'Summer 2014, we were in you man...' 

Bros

Nice and beige

Man alive

Pops

Soft shell crab flex

Benjamins

Colonel mustard

Not very happy about the world cup results

'We are lucky enough to have a surplus of plums'

Can you see  a cock in the beer?

He-man vibes

Lucky dog

Work vibes

'Smoke weed - lol'

Eggy penis

Impromptu meat purchase

Impromptu meat bin bag mouth collision

Bogey on the eagle

'Bogey with a woody for an eagle' is either standard golfing parlance or the title of a weird soft porn flick involving both birds and animals. Whatever, it just goes to show the casual spectator that the game of golf and all its accompanying wordage makes as much (or as little) sense as the world of darts. 

We had the pleasure of experiencing golf via a fluke free ticket to the Open on the Wirral back in July. The weather was stormy, the game made no sense and we were hungover. But no matter, we were teeside, desperately trying to stay silent while some of the best golfing troops attempted to get their balls in the hole. The vibe in the crowd was, to coin a phrase, more Berghaus than Berghain. Waterproofs, flasks, hats and sensible shoes were the order of the day. But throw in as much Stella as a brother and his guts can handle, and there was a sense of mild chaos, particularly as Irish dude Rory Mcilroy was leading and on the brink of a home victory. The day finished in a huge thunderstorm which saw us marauding across the golf greens through huge puddles attempting to find  a way out. Rory went on to take victory and we got the chance to stay in a caravan. 'All round winning' innit.  

Lock up your daughters - it's Tiger Woods

Rory Mcilroy - close up

This brand has a strong visual presence similar to the inside of my dreams

So many pint pots

Why not? 

Rory Mcilroy and his peculiar walking style