Eight hours with only Cliff Richard for company. Missing Bloc Party and The Arctic Monkeys due to traffic jams was bad enough, but having to do so in my Dad's car, with only Cliff Richard cassettes to cheer me up, was a very particular kind of hell. The less said about Friday the better. I honestly could have moon-walked the 20 mile journey faster.
My real T in the Park experience didn't begin until Saturday. Having made the biggest schoolboy error imaginable by leaving my trusty Wellington boots on a train, my first discovery of the weekend was that converse sneakers and T in the park really don't mix. The campsite was literally under 7 inches of gloopy mud, the type that tries to suck your shoes off your feet as you walk. I slithered about pitifully, seriously considering pilfering a pair of boots from one of the many still sleeping mud-squatters. I felt a pang of jealousy as caked in mud I finally arrived to meet an impeccably clean Calvin Harris, who apart from writing the catchiest song of the summer also seems to have an uncanny ability to avoid getting dirty.
I spent quite a lot of my time schmaltzing around the media village, chatting to as many passing musicians as I could get my hands on. Almost everyone appeared, from charming Glasgow songstress Amy McDonald to perhaps the last true rock n rollers, the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. One thing that united everyone, apart from an acknowledgement that Scottish crowds are the best, was excitement at the prospect of the Arcade Fire playing the Main stage.
While clashes between bands you like are invariable at festivals, having to tear myself away from a stunning show by the Cold War Kids in order to see them was particularly disappointing. Perhaps the big build-up was always destined to end in anti-climax, but I personally was as disappointed by the Arcade Fire's show as I was when they stopped producing Creamola foam. That's a lot. Outdoor stages never do subtle music justice.
One thing's for certain though. Wandering around T in the Park made me realise just how much Kate Moss has to answer for. None of the glossy magazines that enjoy pasting her lean frame across their pages ever bother to put in a disclaimer stating the truth: that miniscule hot-pants can only attractively be worn by Kate Moss and Kylie Minogue. Even the prettiest girls somehow end up looking like a stocky dad who had to borrow his son's shorts for the fathers' race on school sports day.
My most exciting discovery of the weekend was that my media wristband, coupled with a cheeky smile and camera slung over my shoulder, meant I could blag my way in front of the barriers with all the photographers right in front of the stage. I caught the much hyped and rather attractive Brazilians CSS from this close range. This was a far more pleasant experience than seeing the dishevelled The View from the same vantage point. I have to admit it's rather scary when you have only a metal barrier between you and a squad of crazed Dundonian fans baying for their hometown heroes.
I'm proud to report that I also managed to smuggle in a huge batch of home-made sandwiches to keep me going throughout the day. Not for me £6 for half-frozen chips and burgers! They proved rather popular with the people I interviewed as well, proving that even the rich and famous cannot resist the culinary perfection that is cheese and pickle. I'm rather less proud of being one of the thousands of Scots who didn't reckon on a day of intense sun, and therefore didn't apply sunscreen. Meeting ridiculously talented and attractive musicians is one thing, but doing so with a nose that with every passing minute gets closer to the dreaded peeling stage, is another thing entirely. The only place my nose couldn't be seen shining was the Slam tent, where I took in a great show by Hot Chip. While this tent may well be weekend home to more Space-cadets than NASA, it's without doubt one of the best things about T in the Park. Certainly beats the Silent Disco anyway.
By the time Sunday came round my sandwich stash was sadly finished. I did locate the brand new healthy food area, but if we're honest with each other, if you have to pay scandalously over-the-odds for food then you're not going to choose tofu are you?
To the envy of every girl I know, I had a chat with Paulo Nutini ahead of his Sunday main stage performance. Not only can I confirm that he is quite sickeningly handsome, but he also maddeningly turned out to be an absolute charmer too, self-effacing and genuine. I do still stick by my theory that if his name was Paul Newton instead of the trendy-wendy Italian stallion derivative then he wouldn't be nearly as popular though. And he's quite small. Jealousy compels me use that line against Tom Cruise too.
The best thing about having access behind the scenes is without doubt getting to use the VIP toilets. I can confirm that famous people do take more care in the bathroom than your average T in the Parker. The normal toilet area of the site was as horrifically sickness-inducing as ever. Speaking of which, I have to confess that I did plan my day around avoiding hearing Mika. In fact only when mega hit Grace Kelly polluted the Balado skies did I make a run for those dreaded portaloos.
Sunday Night's main stage bill, including the Scissors Sisters and Snow Patrol, was truly a line-up which got bullied at school, as rock n roll as a hot milk and honey before bed. However, I have to say that Snore Patrol's seemingly never-ending stream of anthemic soft rock did provide many a good sing along and was a fitting climax to the weekend.
In my lady of the festival stakes, an early favourite was former Glasgow coffee-bar queen and now BBC presenter Shantha Roberts. She has a face that lights up a room and makes you want to be a better person. Another well-backed thoroughbred was T4's Alexa Chung who was gliding about all weekend. Sadly, just as I was introducing myself as the high-flying freelance writer I'm not, two cowboy-hat wearing bus drivers who had snuck into the media village while the stewards/their parole officers weren't watching, decided to accost her. I lost all confidence in an instance. However, even Alexa couldn't compete with undisputed winner, Beth Ditto of punk band Gossip. Getting a cuddle from her is now near the top of my "things to do before I die" list. She might not be snack-sized, but her attitude, as well as her singing voice, was one of my weekend highlights.
T in the Park is a party like no other. I'm tired, muddy, horribly sunburnt and my ears are still ringing. And that's exactly the way it's meant to be!
Evening Times columnist Fin Young braved the mud and music of Balado, camera in hand |
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