I knew “something” was in the air for my 33rd birthday last Friday — but I just didn’t know what. I had suspicions that it involved girlfriend Chris flying across from America; she was mysteriously ‘out of town’, but her phone calls that day didn’t have the usual trans-Atlantic tinniness, and a couple of odd comments about the surprise being in my arms suggested much the same. But even after putting on the supplied white tuxedo jacket, bow-tie, and getting into the waiting cab, I was largely in the dark. Hints about 007 had been dropped by Chris, but that covered pretty much everything from sky-diving to a wrestling bout with Famke Janssen.

We drove up into Mayfair — was it going to be a casino trip? — then pulled up outside the Dover Street Wine Bar, where the driver left me in the tender care of the receptionists, who made bravely desperate attempts to delay me by waving jazz programmes under my jaundiced eye. Luckily for both them and me, I was eventually ushered downstairs, by now fairly certain that I was going to see Chris sitting at a table in the corner.

Yes, and in a very real sense, no. Table: correct. Corner: spot on, there. However rather than Chris, the long table was groaning under the burden of friends from all walks of life: work, home, ‘zinedom, the Net, TaB. To say I was gobsmacked was a massive understatement. The words “done up like a kipper” come to mind. Taking my place at one end of the table, in front of a pile of cards and gifts, it was only then that I noticed the Bond theme playing in the background…

Though I soon settled into chatting, drinking and consuming some interesting Bond-related chocolate novelties [watches, guns, bombs and handcuffs], there was one obvious absentee – Chris. However, the suspiciously empty chair, none too carefully concealed a couple of notches to the right did suggest she was still lurking somewhere behind the scenes. From past experience I know of her fondness for surprise parties, and I was fairly sure she wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.

Indeed, I was still reeling from the shock, though I had at least started to socialise, when Chris turned up…on the arm of someone who looked uncannily like Pierce Brosnan, for reasons which would become clear in due course. Also appearing was a pseudo-‘M’, who proceeded to deliver a briefing which covered pretty much my entire life history and interests, and which has either elevated my reputation among my friends to a godlike level, or destroyed it utterly. I’m still not QUITE sure which, but it was highly amusing anyway! [For those who weren’t there, or were too busy pouring wine down their throats, the script for the briefing is available]

At the end of it, there was a brief opportunity for Chris (aka Dolly Bird, clad in an amazing black dress) and myself to “re-acquaint” ourselves with each other. The temptation to just sneak off together at that point was manfully resisted, and we returned to the table, where the party could now begin in earnest. Wine flowed freely, and the food was excellent — smoked salmon, chicken and chocolate mousse gateau in my case, though there were other choices available.

The magnitude and intricacy of the planning on display was awesome: the guest list had been drawn up from a mass email I’d done (hence the somewhat work-related bias to the list) with Chris mailing the other recipients and working from there. She’d been assisted in her endeavours by Caroline (aka ‘M’), a professional at this sort of party-planning thing, and it was her who brought in ‘Pierce’ — actually Douglas James, in real life (or, at least, the cinematic variety thereof!) Brosnan’s stand-in and stunt double. It had all worked quite perfectly, with no-one breathing a word to me, and everything going off almost like clockwork, despite the distance involved. The only major problem was Chris’s luggage not turning up until the following day, necessitating a frantic afternoon’s shopping to re-acquire the essentials.

Some of the guests had also gone way beyond the call of duty; a special credit goes to Pete Clark in his “Dr.Evil” get-up of bald cap, monocle and stuffed toy cat. He was totally unrecognisable: indeed, my first thought was that it was some kind of Care in the Community project involving the mentally ill. Strange how compelling his costume was though, during the course of the evening many sad individuals – including me, of course – felt the need to try it on. Doug with his (literal) Goldfinger was also worthy of mention, and left no orifice within reach unfingered…

Throughout the evening, disposable cameras (provided by Chris) flashed merrily, and you can see some of the results on this page. But all good things must eventually come to an end, and as midnight approached, the guests, stuffed with chocolate, began to drift away. A hard-core (Hi, Simon! Hi, Mark!) opted to move on to other pastures, but myself and Chris had other things on our mind…and at this point, let’s draw a discreet veil over proceedings!

This was just the start of a wonderful weekend, which will stay in my mind forever. Inflatable Hello Kittys, nailbombs and the contraceptive effects of chicken parmigiana would all play their part, though perhaps some things had better be saved for my autobiography! Thanks go to everyone who attended, commiserations to those who couldn’t, who missed a GREAT night, with particular thanks to Caroline and Douglas for their roles. Plus, of course, above all, to Chris for proving once again why I am the luckiest man in the world…

• Keith — “It was a relief to actually get to the party without putting my foot in it and giving the game away in some form or another, I can stop looking over my shoulder now…”
• Simon — “A shame we never got to have that dance :)”
  [I’ve been asked to point out that the above was sent to Chris. Who’s a woman. Obviously. ;-)]
• Andy — “I would just like to convey an extremely large and sincere THANK YOU for having us along to Jim’s party on Friday night, as well as an even more humongous WELL DONE for managing to organise such a great bash.”
• Caroline — “I was quite nervous doing my bit. I didn’t feel it inside, but my hand was shaking as I turned the pages of the script!”
• Doug — “The chocolate handcuffs were extremely tasty but tended to melt on the wrist.”
• Phil — “No-one noticed how accurate my ‘passer-by #4, scene 8, Goldeneye’ characterisation was. I knew I should have gone as Grace Jones.”
• Rob W — “One of the memorable bits was at the end of the monologue when 007 pulled the gun on you. I don’t think I was the only one to lean back in preparation for diving under the table!”

Attendees: Jim + Chris, Keith + Jo, Bill, Mark, Phil, Steve + Abigail, Rob D + Yuko, Simon, Kev, Rob W, Caroline + Douglas, Victoria + Lee, Pete, Doug, Andy + Kate.

Surveillance Footage

Kate, Chris + Andy try to avoid looking at Andy’s shirt	Kev and Phil share a joke. Pete looks on nervously.	Phil and Caroline prop each other up
Seconds later, the photographer was killed by Abigail + Steve,  And eaten by Bill	Rob D, Chris, me and Yuko. I’m standing on a box	Chris, myself and Pete with a condom on his head
No, Simon — she’s mine! 🙂	Victoria enquires about being a Bond girl	Some pics best left uncaptioned… Rob W and Doug
My birthday surprise…	Keith fondles his pussy

Rockbitch
Islington Garage,
5th November 1998

The origins of this outing lie in the last Flesh + Blood book — as is documented, Harvey Fenton devoted no less than TWENTY-SIX pages to Rockbitch, a satanic/sex/heavy metal (mostly-)girl group. Eyebrows here were raised as to whether they were really worth the coverage — Mr.Fenton assured me they were, so when I found out they were playing London on Guy Fawkes’ Night, what else could I do but turn up?

At this point, readers might want to visit the Rockbitch web site to get the background, especially if they’ve not got the Flesh + Blood book, with its tales of on-stage fistings, fan-fornication and general Excess All Areas. But was it all just a cheap ploy to get attention? If so, it was remarkably unsuccessful: here is Time Out‘s complete listing for the gig:

Rockbitch + Leech Woman + Breed 77. Garage N5, 8pm, adm £7. The opening set is provided by hotly-tipped metallers Breed 77.

Between that, and the fact that this tour takes in such stadia as the Fleece & Firkin in Darlington, it seems that mega-stardom is not quite banging on Rockbitch’s door.

The crowd were an interesting mix of hard-core heavy metal, the dirty mac brigade, and casually dressed men whose significance would become clear later. I carefully scoped out a position to stand; not so close that I ran the risk of becoming part of the show, shall we say, yet close enough to satisfy my entirely healthy journalistic curiosity — oh, alright then, and my prurience.

First of all, we had to get through the support bands; actually, I’m in agreement with Time Out, Breed 77 were actually very impressive, and I’d rate their chances of stardom considerably higher than Rockbitch’s. You heard it here first. The main support, Leech Woman, were familiar from Bradford; they were the ones with the angle-grinder, and once again the sparks were flying. The only noticeable change was the presence of black crosses of sticky tape on their nipples — again, the significance would become clear shortly. They cleared off, and the mob surged forward in anticipation of… well, whatever. It was really VERY tightly packed by now: I let go of my empty plastic beer glass and it took ten minutes to hit the floor. Then, to a roar from the audience, Rockbitch took the stage.

Let’s be honest. The words “Rawk Chick” do come to mind; rapidly smudged make-up, hair-colour from a bottle and so forth; not ugly, for sure, but not really my cup of tea. And hang on, what’s this? They’re also wearing crosses of sticky tape on their nipples! And one of them has ‘CENSORED’ scrawled on her stomach, above a large arrow pointing down… At the end of the first song, it became clear what was happening: the authorities had decided to take an interest, and the aforementioned casually dressed men were, in fact, plain-clothes coppers.

Now, if there’s one thing scarier than a Rawk Chick, it’s a pissed-off Rawk Chick. And, boy, were Rockbitch miffed; between every song, a tirade of vitriol was directed at the powers-that-be and the police for making them tone down the show. I had to sympathise, purely from a libertarian point of view, though some of their complaints were dumb. Saying “it’s just because we’re women” is palpable nonsense; they’d have got the same reaction had it been men sodomising each other on stage, or even straightforward heterosexual screwing. Claims to the contrary are just ignorant. I do also have to ask what they EXPECTED would happen; they’d have been better off going down the road a mile to Brown’s, where women ARE allowed to take their clothes off.

Anyway, despite the sign on stage saying “Fuck Censorship”, they didn’t, choosing to go under lamely; when the lead singer bravely exposed her nipples they was rapidly covered up again with more tape. Their stage act was reduced to a lot of lesbian kissing and some mock Satanic ritual, though covering the mouth of their skull prop with tape was a nicely ironic touch. The loss of their sexual exploits was a double edged-sword. While it certainly gave them something to complain about (Q1: is that why they’re called Rockbitch?), it meant they were thrown back onto their musicianship. This was largely bog-standard heavy metal (Q2: why do you only ever get Satanic metal, and never Satanic pop or Satanic C’n’W?), save their fretless bass player, who was not only the most skilled but the most attractive — and, an interesting point, kept her clothes on.

The overall effect was something between Spinal Tap and Showgirls, though sadly it had the sexual charge of the former, and the humour of the latter — though there was something ironic and almost charming in the way they described what we WOULD have been seeing, if it wasn’t for the presence of Mr. Plod. It is probably unfair to judge Rockbitch on a PG-rated performance, but the tame way in which this petered out does nothing to dispell the illusion that their attitude is nothing more than a cynical marketing ploy. [Whether or not it’s deliberate, it works as such, going by the inordinate interest the following morning in the office!] Still, at eight quid for the ticket, it was a ploy to which I was happy to succumb, having had an entertaining night. I may be deaf, as a result of leaning against the speaker stacks, I may be battered (the guy next to me was trying to slam-dance, even though there was about 3mm of play in the entire audience), and I may have no real interest in seeing them again, but it was an experience, and more fun than a handful of sparklers.

or “TRASH CITY RULES” or “VINDALOO…BUCKET!”

Phoenix Arizona Saturday 19 September 1998 – All Freaking Day…….

The Phunk Junkeez - out on 'work furlough'

Let’s see.. where do I start? Picture this: A baseball stadium, big enough for 30,000 humans – and several more sub-humans – harboring a music festival of epic proportions, in an area of Arizona bordering a retirement community, which houses only ONE policeman. Picture the old farts paying extra money to hire Phoenix police as serious backup just in case we get a little ornery. Hehehe… Then, picture one of the bands being very late for the concert because they got busted in Buckeye, a town south of Phoenix, for “smoking controlled substances”, and being given a “work furlough” in order to make the concert at all.

Then, picture quite the number of strange and unusual people, some carrying inflatable dates (I witnessed that) and quite the number of vendors selling everything from stickers that said “nice people swallow”, to adult novelties (which included to my utter delight an inflatable sheep that came with its own KY jelly), to free condoms and old, used cd’s… Where else to find the tent for Trash City? Right in the damn middle of it, where else? Yes, folks, your American Ambassador squatted her team of Trash vendors and journalists here, at the Peoria Sports complex for “That Damn Show” sponsored by a local alternative radio station and a local American beer company. All my fans who read my stuff on a regular basis should recognize the Peoria Sports Complex when I had to take my son’s class on a field trip there to see a baseball game and wrote about it.

The festival itself started at 11:00am and went on till almost midnight. I arrived at the stadium at 7:00am to set up our tent. The bands were great, let me try to remember all of them, here goes:

Harvey Danger, not sitta-ing on a flagpole

• Urge
• Harvey Danger
• Cake
• Fuel
• Jackie the Jokeman
  from Howard Stern’s show
• Blink 182
• Sugar Ray
• 7 Mary 3
• Goo Goo Dolls
• Phunk Junkeez
• Lenny Kravitz

There were more, but I can’t remember…my brain was fried. The temperature was 109 degrees and I got a serious-ass farmer tan on my neck and shoulders. There was a ton of people and I set up the camcorder to do “man on the street” interviews for Trash City. At some future point we will show you photos of just how weird people can be and just how willing they are to do anything, and I mean ANYTHING, in front of a camera, if they have the smallest inkling that they may be on TV. I just neglected to say that it would be MY television they would be on, not network TV of any sort. But hey, you know my favorite saying: “fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

And we all love vindaloo...

I got a good 28 minutes of hysteria on tape. Lots of TC fans telling the camera just what they think of Trash City and most of the responses were funny, witty, neglible, ignorant, unintelligible and downright obscene (may be considered offensive by British Customs and Excise). But despite the moral turpitude, one of the best parts was introducing the fans to the exercise of learning the lyrics to your pep rally song “Vindaloo”. [Oh, dear. I have to raise my hand at this point as the guilty party who sent Chris the CD… JhM] They began to think it was part of “Trash City Rules” so a lot of them used the chant “Vindaloo… Bucket!” in the videotaped interviews. Some day we may make that tape available for viewing to the general TC public, perhaps a “director’s cut” with everything left in, including a special wide-screen edition of “Trash City Bloopers”. But that’s only on the back burner of this American Ambassador’s charred flesh-for-brains.

One charming thing that stood out was “Miss Kathy’s Concessions”. I was reminded of the nostalgia days of ballroom dancing, of Fred Astaire dancing in night clubs, of the atmosphere of the 50’s and the romanticism that were “night clubs”, except these were Concession girls “Retro style”! They pulled up in a hot pink van and piled out of it, inflating plastic furniture and changing into costume: sequined miniskirts, fishnet stockings, 7″ spike high heels and bustiers that pushed their cleavage out into huge mounds under their chins. Then they hung trays from straps around their necks, filled to capacity with all manner of concessions, including lollies, chips, cigarettes, cigars, Ultra-sour Mega Warheads, and each girl went out into the bleachers spouting Betty Boop-like “Cigars, Cigarettes, Candy”. They were constantly selling out. I wonder why. I thought the concept was brilliant. It was retro, it was nostalgic, it was perfect. They told me they travel all over the country to different festivals doing this. I was impressed — and I am a female, and NOT a Lesbian. After saying that, I am sure that a huge percentage of the male populace enjoyed the visual displays they had on offer. And I don’t mean the trays around their necks… I just thought it was original thinking on Miss Kathy’s part.

All in all, a fun day, full of wild fans, great music, crappy food and expensive beer. This is the second year for this concert and judging from the enthusiasm shown, more than likely to become a tradition, unless the old farts from Sun City have any say about it. But we know what we’ll say if they try to stop it next year:

TRASH CITY RULES! VINDALOO…BUCKET!

Chris Fata

Well, if it’s August, it must be time for the Chelmsford festival of all things pop, and V98 held for this undiscerning punter the following mixed bag…

Saturday – A nice fluffy summer’s day

• Iggy Pop – 8/10 Dinosaurs live longer these days (Main stage)
  ‘Lust For Life’ isn’t just a song title you know. It’s as much information as you need about Iggy Pop. For he’s still larging it, bouncing around and whipping the audience into a frenzy in a way that puts to shame many of the ‘new’ stars on parade. Iggy opted for a bit of crowd diving and was nearly sucked under, his microphone momentarily giving some karaoke quality time to an able and appreciative fan. The Popster must have Inspector Gadget sprung heels, as with more energy than Calvin & Hobbes he bounces and twists his way across the stage and back, leaving the appreciative audience short of breath and frankly wondering quite how he manages it. Exhausting stuff!
• Gomez – 7/10 Interesting in a different sort of way (NME stage)
  Spinning out of some unnoticed field, neither left nor right, Gomez fills a a musical snack gap that you hadn’t realised existed. It’s not Oasis, nor Kula Shaker. It’s not one of the many thing that I shan’t bore you by listing. They play good music well. There’s light and shade, pace and emotion in there too. On stage the band enjoyed it, and so did we. Keep an ear open for Gomez, I don’t quite know where they’re going, or what they’re up to, but it’s going to be fun finding out.
• Saint Etienne – 4/10 Too cool, too uninvolved (NME stage)
  The two backing singers where great. No really, they were. Playing percussion, dancing to every track, goading the audience along, and generally busy having a whale of a time. It’s a bit of a shame therefore that the rest of the band didn’t look behind them to see how it should be done. Whilst the Saint’s threw out their carefully controlled and constructed pop with precision, there was too little passion, too little committed involvement – the attitude seemed to be ‘oh yes I’m a pop star’ and to shrug in some ‘it’s just something I do’ way. Now, where did I put that dry ham role and my can of warm, flat cola?
• Catatonia – 9/10 Oooh, there’s lovely isn’t it (NME stage)
  ‘Oi listen, you know the best thing about playin’ festivals in Britain?’ she called out, swigging the last drop from a bottle of wine, ‘The audience’s more pissed than I am!’ Cue fit of rolling laughter. Pumping the audience into life they kicked off, we responded and Catatonia rocked their way through a tight and varied selection that delighted all and when they strode into ‘Road Rage’ the audience went ballistic. For full-fat contrast during a slower number, when the power went on the accompanying guitar, she just sang on, and we all loved her for it. ‘Thanks very much for your help.’ afterwards she waved happily to us. Brilliant.
• The Jesus and Mary Chain – 4/10 No singer, no style (NME stage)
  Having been barely audibly as he mumbled and moaned his way through the opening numbers, when the lead ‘singer’ sat down, to be hidden by the monitors and played his guitar it pretty much summed the whole gig up. Oh sure they play tight, slick, pumping guitar rock, but they’ve all the stage presence of recent road-kill and absolutely no singer at all. I advise them to watch any number of the other bands on display for that essential ‘how to perform and project’ guide, because we deserved better. What a waste, what a shame, what’s next?
• The Verve – 7/10 Did they lip sync? (NME stage)
  I’ll be honest, I don’t much like The Verve. I’ll be more honest, I am not a fan of any of the Smiths-stylie navel retentive toss. And before you ask, I didn’t like the Smiths either, so stop pulling that face. Never the less, the Verve played well and keenly, the fans seemed by and large contented if not fantastically happy, it’s just that they don’t hold (for me) broad appeal enough to headline at a big festival. Sorry boys, but I expected better.
• Underworld – 7/10 Play sequence 1, 2, 3 and 5, and repeat, fat boy (NME stage)
  Lager lager lager lager. Lacking any particular visual appeal other than that of the average nightclub they kicked out enough hippy trippy techno to get a good 80% of the audience dancing like loons. Nothing wrong here.

Sunday – Noah would have looked worried

• Rialto – 7/10 Is John Lennon your dad? (Main stage)
  In that nothing-to-lose early afternoon slot Rialto managed to involve and excite a sizeable portion of an audience that, in all honesty, probably just happened to be milling about when they fired up. Good varied, toe tappers rolled out and soon the audience numbers standing and paying active attention were on the increase. To be honest whilst I can’t recall any song particularly, what there was of their classic style guitar, MOR rock worked admirably.
• Feeder – 5/10 Fun, if you go that way (Main stage)
  Although their first three tuneless little ditties blurred into one, the surging jumping (not terribly large) crowd down at the front didn’t seem to care. Their heavy rock, nearing Korn territory, didn’t seem to be bringing many (or any) intrigued passer’s by and I didn’t stay. Hey-ho.
• Heather Nova – 8/10 Ooh she’s gorgeous and BLIMEY can she sing! (NME stage)
  Carol King, erm, no, Cheryl Crow, erm no, that one who sings to the Lord for a Mercedes, no. Look she reminds me of someone (and someone damn good) but I can’t work out who, or indeed why. Obviously it doesn’t matter. Heather’s voice is strong, clear and effortlessly ethereal when needed. But this chick rocks, and is ably supported by a damn fine band – special mention goes to the lead guitarist, and the girl with the electric skeletal oboe: wired weirdness. No one-riff tricks here, it was a good set that seemed well balanced and drew a warm response from a curious and growing audience. Good stuff and here’s to the next time because I suspect her name went into many a mental notebook.
• Stereophonics – 7/10 I remember thinking they were good (Main Stage)
  There’s nothing else to say really. I remember thinking at the time that they were good, it’s just that I cannot recall a single thing about them now. And yes, I’m worried.
• James – 9/10 Good value (Main stage)
  I think that every lead singer should watch James, and particularly (obviously) the lead singer of The Jesus and Mary Chain. File the experience under ‘on stage charisma and audience involvement’. That they managed to elicit the response they richly deserved from a rain beaten crowd said a lot. Lively and entertaining they didn’t falter not even when one guitarist got caught full face with a bottle (plastic but full) and went down – this dangerous practice really is NOT part of the ‘festival experience’. As welcome as a hot meal on this cold, wet and windy day, James were excellent festival fare.
• Republica – 10/10 Oh, just leave them on stage (NME stage)
  ‘Let’s be facking ‘avin’ ya then!’ screamed the hi-energy pocket rocket with the two tone red/black mop top. Like some demented Toyah Wilcox pumped high on adrenaline, Red Bull and life she ripped through the songs with lusty gusto and would have kicked the ever living daylights out of the surging, bouncing, ecstatic audience – fortunately the man-mountain security crew protected us. Tight, sharp and DeFiNiTeLy UP for it, the band rocked, the audience bayed for more, and the Essex Girl kicked ass. Hook her up to the national grid, we could all do with some of that sort of energy. Fackin’ fantastic.
• Morcheeba – 8/10 Lovely (NME stage)
  ‘Let me see all those heads nodding.’ she sweetly mocked with a Cheshire’s grin, ‘Come on, bend your knees, it’s not difficult.’ For this is ‘Black Music’ for the ‘Middle English’, and we all duly and politely assembled to applaud and, yes dammit, nod gently along in time. Beguiling us with their warm charm the ‘cheebas took a stroll through their excellent two albums, the only vague disappointment was that they didn’t (noticeably) choose to put a spin on any of their numbers. Still, pretty much everyone in the audience had and knew the discs – albeit unable to sing along when requested. We all shrugged, their lyrics aren’t really sing-a-longy. We didn’t care, and I don’t think they did too much, for we were all too busy having fun.
• PJ Harvey – 9/10 Darkly intense like rich Colombian coffee (NME stage)
  And like heady and bitingly strong coffee you either love it or don’t. The worryingly quiet crowd loved it, every little drop. Delayed by interminable setting up problems some disgruntled shouting was soon rubbed away when Polly Jean arrived, as in a rapt silence we drank deeply from her well of dark songs sung strongly. The thin drizzle swirled diamond glinting about her where smoke, spotlights and raven hair combined to frame her pale pale skin and ruby ruby lips, as out powered out a deep-set rhythm that savaged the psyche’s soft underbelly. The talented band threw the métier of their medium around with slick precise ease. Not enough, never enough. not when it’s this good. Disturbingly brilliant or brilliantly disturbing, take your pick.
• Texas – 5/10 Nothing here to cause offence. (Main stage)
  Now I have to be careful here, because a) I’m not a fan and b) I was huddled under a tree whilst it rained – did I mention the rain yet? But then again this is where I watched James from, so here goes. With a nice sensible bob cut, big-message tee shirt, the lead singer seems crinkle cut from self-rolling dough, the perfect icon for middle management thirty somethings to come home to after a hard day at the office and relax with – just like the music, the band and the whole thing. When in a fulsome Scottish accent she declared that, in answer to some never heard question, she could rock, I kind of dreaded what would follow. So whilst intoning slightly some saucy lyrics she touched her groin, I and the rest of the audience seemed quietly embarrassed rather than excited. All in all, pretty pointless.
• Ian Brown – 1/10 Oh, just GO AWAY! (NME stage)
  What musical creature is Ian Brown? I asked myself this question many times during his set. He’s got the personal charm of a verruca, the dance technique of a hill-walking rambler and an obvious fetish for wanting to be mistaken for ‘one of those naughty boys from Oasis’. Seeming to plagiarise everything current thirty months ago down to its lowest common denominator, this was ‘brit pop’ for the tone deaf. Out of the large audience a low percentage seemed to be actively enjoying it and a lot voted with their feet. I quite liked (aka felt sorry for) the band right up to the point the lead guitarist used his teeth to play a riff – well if they want to flush their obvious talents down the toilet this way, then that is their business. Rubbish.
• Fun Lovin’ Criminals – 10/10 Super smooth, as cool as a Latin nights, bro! (NME stage)
  How to explain this. I’ve been trying to find the right words. How about these ones: cool, fun, sophisticated, energetic, Latin, smooth, rocking, beaty, involving, entertaining, slick, talented, funny, punk, controlled. Well there are enough words to be getting on with, so, without irony or use of negatives, construct as many sentences as you need containing these (or similar) words for that build-your-own-review experience. For the record they passed through Scooby Snacks, Smoke ‘Em, Fun Lovin’ Criminals and King of New York on their way to completing a top quality show. What was new sounded good, what we knew sounded great. Me, I’m still speechless – wow! 100% Pure Colombian bros!

To sum up V98, the site was well organised, the stages set in natural amphitheatres and each far enough apart to make them (almost) unintrusive for the other. For me the Sunday line-up was always going to be better, and so it proved. I missed Moloko, James Brown and All Saints to name but a very few, but that’s the way it goes. There was plenty of food available, almost too much choice to be honest, whereas the queues at the beer tents on (sunny) Saturday were bad enough to discourage casual drinkers – beer oddly enough wasn’t much in demand on Sunday, or rather Rainday.

To be frank, if I’d been camping, I would have hated Sunday, because it rained or drizzled pretty much the whole day. Any decamping would have left you with sacks of wet (not damp) gear and rain up to your elbows, although the previously bone dry ground took the rain pretty well and didn’t get anything more than slippery/slimy.

So was V98 better than V97? I’d say so, although it is a close call. Lacking the likes of the truly world class crowd-pleasers Blur and the likes of Kula Shaker, the ’98 vintage pulled ahead by virtue of its full bodied appeal – particularly on Sunday. That said, this year’s dance tent looked very slim – Bjorn Again (98) vs Sneaker Pimps (97) anyone? I’ll also confess to thinking that the running order looked questionable at times, as did the content – witness Catatonia, who I would prequalify as almost sure-fire crowd-pleasers on the alternate stage and lowish on the running order. Is that sensible in any language? I am left wondering how much influence the record or management companies have on the scheduling of the stages.

Well, that’s all in my humble opinion. I wonder what brew they’ll cook up for next year, and what delightful ‘Heather Nova’ style surprises will be in store? I can’t wait.

That British culture is not really compatible with the great outdoors, is the inevitable result of a number of factors. For example, to get pavement cafes to work, you need…well, pavements. Unfortunately, most British pavements are somewhat unsuitable for sitting on, being about 18 inches wide, and thus not ideal locations for leisurely taking in the scenery. As Soho demonstrates, you inevitably spend the time being cursed by passing pedestrians who have to walk into the road to get round you, while you sip an exhaust-fume contaminated cappuccino.

So it is with the drive-in cinema, which singularly has never been a crucial element of growing-up in Britain, in the same way it was in America. The reason here is quite simple: weather. We have it, while the parts of America in which the drive-in flourished has climate. “We have two seasons”, says American ambassador Chris, “summer and waiting-for-summer” and there’s no denying that given this, open-air cinema has more inherent appeal than trying to peer through a steady drizzle towards a fog-bound screen.

However, Friday night demonstrated that, given the opportunity, there is no specific reason why it shouldn’t work, in the right circumstances, as a crowd estimated at 10,000 people thronged Battersea Park for The Fifth Element, part of the 1998 Stella Screen Tour. Two reasons for this popular appeal should be mentioned: a) it was a lovely evening for it, and b) it was free. The former have been notably in short supply this summer, and offering the latter was thus always likely to be a success.

I got there just after nine; housemates had arrived earlier, and established a bridge-head at the, er, walk-in cinema, spreading out a rug and marking territory. For the next hour, we were subjected to an annoying asshole DJ from Kiss FM, playing crap music and trying to whip up the crowd into an entirely unlikely state of frenzy. Sensibly 99% of the audience weren’t having anything to do with it, and the main result of his actions was to make the DJ character in The Fifth Element eventually appear to be a sympathetic and restrained individual. He was, admittedly, not the only asshole there. In no specific order:

• assholes with laser pointers
• assholes who decided to bring their bikes with them. Through the crowd.
• assholes with inflatable sofas

The DJs other purpose appeared to be to remind us that the event had been brought to us by STELLA ARTOIS, and that STELLA ARTOIS were also selling us cans of STELLA ARTOIS for the very reasonable price of £1.50 per can of STELLA ARTOIS — available at the back, near the giant inflatable STELLA ARTOIS can. Now, I actually *like* Stel…the beer, but even I found this wearing, and neither am I stupid enough to pay 50% more than the price in my local off-licence. Fortunately, I’d been down the pub beforehand, and so was quite well enough lubricated, thank you.

Before the film we were even treated to the new St*ll* *rt**s TV advert. Er, except someone had forgotten to rewind it after the previous night’s screening, so we got the reverse version, before someone realised what was going on and pulled the plug, to much laughter from the viewing public. [They played it again after the film, but said public were too busy trying to make their way home to pay attention]

The movie started. Great picture, shit sound — it all appeared to be coming out of one speaker. However, it’s surprising what you can get used to, and after twenty or so minutes, you didn’t notice any more, and just kicked back in the ambience. Which was, it has to be said, remarkable to be part of possibly the biggest cinema audience ever in Britain, under a sky shading from pink to deep, dark blue. Concorde flew overhead, its bass roar adding to the low rumbling of the PA system. The odd star twinkled through the fluffy cloud cover overhead, lending the film a depth and sense of scale which was largely missing when seen indoors.

Bruce Willis was cool, Milla Jovovich was WAY cool, even Gary Oldman (in perhaps the silliest haircut of a career which has seen some stonkers) was cool. Just as food always tastes twice as good when eaten al fresco, I think films perhaps seem better when seen in the open air. This is especially true when they are grand cinematic follies like The Fifth Element, where the self-indulgences have room to breathe. As I write this, they are showing Jurassic Park, which would, I think, probably be similarly impressive.

The two hours flew by — or perhaps I was just distracted by trying to find a comfy position on the very hard turf. Ten thousand people stood up, stretched their legs as one, and tried to find taxis home. It was a grand experience, though it’s maybe not something I’d want to do all the time, because of the unreliable British weather. Still, maybe they could just work the program round it — but then, who’d really care to see Waterworld every Friday night?