You want to hear about Jay-Z? You’ve come to the wrong place, pal. Everyone and his dog tells you about the music at Glastonbury. Georgina Terry is here to recount what happened to her before the music even started.

(Photograph by Georgina Terry)

Wednesday

Arrive onsite at about 4pm. It’s already rammed. KP and I try to attain our usual spot but there are usurpers there. I send KP off to find a new pitch while I collapse in the sunshine and wonder whether the bulge in my tummy is a hernia from dragging a rucksack, tent, camping chair, and two enormous bags half way across Somerset, or an unwise motorway sandwich.

KP comes back triumphant and leads me to the new space. It is great! Near to the meeting point; that crucial, close but not too close to the toilets, and with no campers with acoustic guitars in sight. Hooray!

We pitch and spend the rest of the evening wandering around the site, soaking up the relaxing festival air and recharging our energy levels for the days ahead.
Oh, okay. We got twatted. We drank a lot of cider, too much organic wine, half a bottle of vodka and nearly a whole bottle of Malibu between us. We were overconfident and overexcited. We were fools.

Thursday

Not a good start to the day. Feel a bit sicky, can’t think why. I get up, have a tent bath (whether this is as bad as it sounds rather depends upon what you’re imaging) and a Pot Noodle then have a funny turn and have to retire to the tent for an hour or so. Eventually KP shakes me awake and insists that I leave the tent that day, so we go up to the Green Fields and sit on top of a hill surveying the wonder of the festival below us.

Now, I’m not a hippy, I’m very much a city girl. Furthermore, I’m Northern and ergo have very little time for horoscopes, mysticism and organic chai. So, you can trust me when I say that if there is anything more restful to the soul than sitting at the top of the Healing Fields and staring out at Glastonbury then I don’t know what it is.

However, the peace is soon rudely interrupted by the violent screeching of police whistles. Green police whistles. Some idiot is pissing in the stream! Polluting the stream is not cool as it affects the local wildlife. The green police humiliate the offender and the whole field boos the culprit. That’ll learn ‘im. He’s kinda big though so I’m glad it wasn’t me who had to tell him.

KP and I stride (did I mention? It’s sunny! It’s sunny! OMG) to the Park Field and stumble upon a sushi yurt. There is a low, narrow entrance to the yurt and you have to take your shoes off before you’re allowed into the carpeted interior. Inside, it’s a tranquil haven of red, black and Ashahi. We have a sushi box each and are very pleased with ourselves.

The music hasn’t started yet and already this is the best week of this year.

Speaking to the Daily Star, Barat said: “I’m a fan of Ronson. Who isn’t? We have something coming up but it’s very hush-hush. I don’t want to jinx anything so my lips are sealed, but it could be brilliant.”

Barat is playing a DJ set at Dangerous Disco at the Carling Academy in Islington on the 11th July.

Dirty Pretty Things will be taking to the stage at Reading and Leeds festival on August 23rd and 24th of this year.

From my review, you may presume that I didn’t see any bands. You’d be wrong. Not only did I see many bands, I actually played in one. This could come as a surprise. It was certainly a surprise to me.

My life a few years ago was pretty wild. I played in an all-girl rock and roll band that was fairly big on a certain scene. For a while, it was not uncommon for me to go out in one city and wake up in another. People would come up and chat to me, making it evident that I had had quite a considerable talk with them in the recent past and I wouldn’t have a clue who they were. For a long while I’d greet everyone as Doll, Mister, or Chick, as I had no idea of their name.

But times have changed and I’ve tamed my ways. It was, therefore, with considerable surprise that I found myself on stage, live on the radio, playing with a band that is not my band at Glastonbury. I’m not entirely sure how this happened, although I suspect the sun beating down on my cider filled brain was involved.

So, if you see any footage of the Ralfe Band playing on the Worthy FM stage and wonder when they got a girl in and why the girl is shaking a pineapple, wonder no more. It’s me. And I’m not quite sure how I got there either.

My nostalgia for the cassette really only exists for one reason – I miss making mix tapes. When I was a teenager, before I got my new fangled CD walkman, making mix tapes was a compulsion. My nights would be spent sorting through CDs, cherry-picking the best tracks, arranging them into a natural order that would take the listener on a roller coaster ride of tunes (as I might have said back then – but who remembers how they talked as a fourteen year old? All I can remember is saying “div” a lot). My days would be spent striding around town with my new mix filling my head, feeling like a master of sound. Yes, I was a pretentious twat back then. But that’s what teenagers do, isn’t it?

Nowadays, we don’t really need mix tapes. We’ve got all our music in one place, and any song we’ve a hankering for is a couple of button presses away. We’ve truly liberated our favourite songs. Why would we want to cage them in archaic plastic boxes again?

But there was something about making a mix, wasn’t there? It wasn’t just your 15 favourite songs. It was something you concentrated on, planned, tweaked, made perfect. It was a project. Whether you were making a grand concept album or just “Beach Mix: Summer ‘02”, a mix was something to care about, to swap and share with your friends. That’s what I miss about mix tapes.

But that capricious goblin called Fate was clearly listening to my grumbles (I’m sure the little ball bag has bugged my living room), and promptly delivered the answer to my geek prayers. At the end of March this year, an indescribable genius called Justin launched a website called muxtape.com. At the end of June this year, my good buddy Tim introduced me to it.

Muxtape is a site that allows you to create a custom mp3 mix tape from your personal library of songs by uploading them on to the website. You can name and briefly describe your album, which is then available to be listened to by anyone who visits the site. So as well as being able to make and share your own mix, you can also check out the mixes that other people put together. The site has been made to encourage us to not only share music, but to present it to each other with love and care – something in danger of being drowned out amidst the bang and bluster of the digital revolution.

So check the website out. It’s like making a mix tape. Only easier.

Featuring a man with a New York accent, dressed like a deli chef, making sandwiches in a homely kitchen. He is supposed to represent the modern mother, who with the help of Heinz Deli Mayo, can make even the moldiest cheese sandwich taste like a New York sub.

Not that this Stone Age vision of family life is what has gotten the paternal knickers in a twist. It’s the fact that, as the ads end, just as the haggard father rushes off to work, “mom” pulls him back for a quick peck on the lips before he goes out to chop some wood, or fight bears or do whatever it is we men are supposed to do to earn a living.

Parents told the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) that the ad was inappropriate and unsuitable for children. In these knife happy days, the fact that two men trading spit in a post watershed advertisement gets parents in a tizzy bothers me.

These are undoubtedly the same parents who considered the Newsround coverage of Mark Speight’s death “sick and appalling”. Despite the fact the show never made any mention of his suicide or his drug use, some parents saw fit to complain about the show reporting the story at all. Perhaps they would have been happier if Newsround had just announced that Speight had left cBeebies and gone to live on a farm like several of Blue Peter’s cats and dogs.

Why in this day and age are we still obsessed with protecting our children’s innocence? By wrapping them up in cotton wool all we do is breed another generation as ignorant, small minded and backward as the last. While I believe children are growing up too fast, shielding them from the realities of the day is not the answer.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. A BBC spokesman has said that hundreds of children have gotten in touch to express their sympathy at Speight’s passing and say how important and influential he was to them.

Perhaps if parents were to treat their children as the mature children Newsround see them to be the UK would finish a little higher than last in a UNICEF league of European countries for child well-being.

Having steered clear of driving for several years, Caomhan Keane decided to mark his maiden voyage. But balking at the spiralling cost of just one lesson, he decided to keep it in the family and learn another life lesson from his dad.

(Illustration by Adam Howarth)

“Lift your foot of the clutch…take it easy with the accelerator…easy…I said…EASY!”

Father and son relationships are supposedly fraught with Freudian friction. So there is no greater test of a father’s love than that of his son’s first driving lesson.

My father, Michael, lives for his Mazda 323. He’s named her, speaks to her and cleans her more often than he cleans himself. So it came as no shock when my first request for a driving lesson was met with a flat “no”.

“I don’t think people should teach people they know how to drive,” he said, polishing her hub. “I wouldn’t have the patience.”

A reminder of how he had the patience to teach my cousin to plough her parent’s car into a lamppost and a glance at how much a driving lesson would set him back (thirty quid a pop) had him singing a different tune.

Besides, I think he was secretly thrilled. While never the son he had expected (I can’t gut a fish and the only time I kicked a ball it ended up in the back of my own net) he’d found my lack of motoring skills particularly infuriating.

Most children growing up are scared of the monsters that lurked under their bed. I feared the very real monster that appeared in the driving seat every time my mother stepped behind the wheel of a car.

Of a natural nervous disposition, three horrendous car crashes left her, and me, shrieking with fear every time the car so much as approached a traffic light. Since this apple didn’t fall far from the tree, I swore I’d never put myself through such psychological torture again.

But there we were, on the back streets of my hometown, about to take my life in my own hands.

The point of a good first lesson, my father said, was to get the driver acquainted with the car. Initially the only thing I was getting acquainted with was whiplash.

It didn’t help that as we sped towards a stone wall, my teacher reverted to his native Irish, confusing an already baffled pupil.

Pulling the handbrake almost out of its resting place and his arm out of it’s socket, my fathers deep breaths were the only sound in a silence curdled with fear. When he finally spoke I felt like I was four all over again, steering the wheel from his lap.

He guided me through the changing of the gears, the releasing of the clutch and the hair-raising sensitivity of the accelerator. As we wound round the country roads he barked orders and occasionally grabbed the wheel, but as I learned to control the car, and he his temper, we relaxed.

Soon I was doing full loops round the village, pausing only to avoid sending my neighbour into his bush and for my father to natter like a foul mouthed knitting circle with anyone who crossed our path.

Country roads are perfect for a first time drivers: nearly always deserted and no traffic lights, roundabouts or motorways to wind up on, or around. But they provide their own unique challenges.

Mastering my first 90 degree turn, I found myself face to face with a herd of cattle. While later as I privately congratulated myself on my virgin voyage, my five year old cousin overtook me in his tractor.

There are definite advantages to having your father teach you to drive. Although your typical instructor wouldn’t belt you over the head if you forget to put the gears in neutral, you also miss the joy of watching his face ashen as you fulfill your need for speed.

But when you consider the price (none) and the quality time spent with the old man, the experience was a more fulfilling one than if I had gone to a driving school.

Info:

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Who has time for thirty lessons at thirty pounds a pop to become a fully qualified driver. Learn in one week at The Driving School for London. Click here or call Noel Gaughan on 0800 056 9418 for more details.

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Check the cars out here or call 07746 202035 for more details.

Between 6-7pm tonight Tangoing couples will take to seven bridges and seven stations to commemorate the July 7 bombings, and as part of the wider Big Dance 2008 initiative in the capital. The idea is that dancers will dance “compassionately and connected” together to remember July 7 2005.

The dancers will dance in silence, sharing iPods to keep in time. The brain behind the ‘Tango Commute’ is German-born dancer Thomas Lindner, who describes the Tango as “hugging musically” and wants to cheer up the evening commute.

If you want to catch them in action, the couples will be dancing at:

Stations:
Victoria
Paddington
Waterloo
Euston
Kings Cross
Liverpool Street
London Bridge station

Bridges:
Westminster
Charing Cross
Waterloo
Blackfriars
Southwark
London
Tower

Merlot

Probably the most famous grape, but not that popular in recent years. Merlot has a plum taste, or occasionally currant. It lends itself easily to being blended with other grapes and I find these to be slightly friendlier to a novice palette. A Grenache, a weak and flexible grape, is often paired with a merlot, for a more flavourful taste.

Cabernet sauvignon

Cab sauvs taste of blackcurrant, but can also carry tastes of pepper, vanilla (from oaked wines) and even mint (found in Australian wines). They are quite strong wines and can be blended with less-strong grapes. Much of the new world wine regions are given to the making of cabernet sauvignon because high temperatures make a lovely strong taste and colour. But if you really want to go all out with your money, try a traditional Bordeaux cab sauv.

My favourite affordable wine of all time is a cabernet sauvignon from Casillero del Diablo. It is a new world, from Chile, and has such a smooth taste that you can drink it socially, with food or even chill it slightly for the summertime. And it only costs around £6 at the supermarket or off-license. Even my local corner shop stocks it.

Pinot noir

Pinot noir is my favourite and most highly recommended wine. But you need to be looking at spending no less than around £20 in a bar or £10 in the supermarket to find a really good one.

Pinot noir is one of the hardest wines to produce and if you make a good one, then you are a well respected wine maker. The grape originated in Burgundy, but is now produced around the world, including England.

The bouquet can depend on the region, and range from black cherry, raspberry or currant. But it always tends to be fairly light to medium bodied.

Shiraz/Syrah

Don’t be fooled, these are the same thing but have different names depending on the country. Australians call the grape shiraz and everywhere else it is syrah. I would say that syrah is one of the easiest wines to drink for people who aren’t keen on red wines. It is a very dark colour, almost purple, with a taste of blackberries or other dark berries, and pepper. Australian shiraz will often have a bit of spice to it and more of a kick; try the Yalumba range.

Of all of Taipei’s chaotic night markets, Shilin must take first prize. It’s just a few minutes walk from Jiantan MRT tube station, north of the city. The main road running through the market is pedestrianised – well, no driver would dare try driving through. Alleys branch off the main street in every direction; their shop canopies so close they almost touch, forming a make shift shelter. Neon signs light up the sky as if it were day. Stall holders compete to shout their bargains the loudest. Giggling teenagers, young families and brash old ladies push past me into the throng.

But one sniff of the over-powering stench of drains makes me wonder what all the hype is about. Then I realise the lingering smell of sewage is not what I first thought. It’s stinky tofu.

Chou dofu, or stinky tofu as it is widely known, is Taiwan’s Marmite. You either love it or you hate it. It’s fermented tofu; soft and bouncy, the colour of sand, almost like a thick omelette. It’s usually cut into squares and served on a skewer. It can be eaten cold, but is most commonly deep fried. If you’re really lucky, it might be served with goose blood.

Once I got past the smell, I was pleasantly surprised. The taste largely depends on the topping; chilli, pickles, garlic and soy sauce are all popular. I took a deep breath and shelled out about 30p for a few pieces, which dripped with a gloopy barbeque sauce. It was strangely tasty; moreish, even.

In the opposite direction to Shilin is Shida night market, near Guting MRT. Shida is cheap so it’s popular with students studying at the nearby National Taiwan Normal University – yes, that’s its real name. The market is smaller than Shilin, and has a different atmosphere. It’s slightly less manic, but its alleys are just as fun to explore. Taiwanese pop blares from the stalls; I can hear three or four different songs playing at the same time.

I pass stalls selling chicken feet, octopus balls and chrysanthemum tea, but decide to give them a miss. It’s summer, and the temperature has barely dropped since the morning, so I’m tempted by a pot of Taiwanese-style shaved ice. It’s usual for stalls to offer a variety of colourful toppings; you pick two or three. As well as canned fruit and fresh mango or watermelon, you might choose cubes of aloe vera jelly or peanuts. A stall holder gave me a wide grin, his teeth black from years of chewing beetle nut. He babbled at me, waving his arm over the selection. Try it.

I chose black jelly, just for the fun of it. It was chewy but tasteless. He ladled swampy-looking mung beans into my empty cardboard pot, then sweet red beans – like baked beans, only sweet. I soon learnt a general rule of thumb in Taiwan: expect something to be savoury, and it’s likely to be sweet, and vice versa.

A mound of shaved ice went in next, followed by a generous drizzle of syrup. I sniffed: it smelt like cake mixture before it goes in the oven. Just in case it wasn’t sugary enough, he poured sweetened condensed milk over the syrup. The result? It may be a dish diabetics ought to miss, but it was a refreshing alternative to my usual cone-and-a-flake.

Sampling these street stall snacks was making me thirsty, so I headed to Huaxi Jie Street night market, also known as snake alley. As well as the market, which is one long undercover arcade, visitors to the area come here for Longshan temple, which gives the closest MRT station its name. Clouds of incense surround the temple, which was built in 1738. I was tempted to linger when I saw its intricately carved pillars, but I was on a mission.

Huaxi Jie market is a five-minute walk from the temple. As well as adult shops and massage parlours which hint at the area’s seedier side, there are tea shops, traditional Chinese medicine shops and skilled artists keen to paint your name in Chinese-style calligraphy. But I wasn’t here to pick up a scroll. I was here to try snake blood.

I joined a crowd watching a man put a large snake on a table and use a wooden hammer to hit it on its head. He then tied the snake to a metal pole and sliced its stomach open with a knife. The crowd squealed collectively as he peeled back the snake’s skin to expose its heart, which was still beating. He poked out the heart, put it on the table and cut the main artery, collecting the blood in a glass. He emptied the bile from its gall bladder into a separate glass.

The Taiwanese believe snake venom detoxifies the body, gall bladder improves eye sight and snake blood gives a clear complexion. All parts of the snake is eaten – even its penis. I tried a shot of blood mixed with syrup and rice wine. It looked like tomato juice and smelt like iron, like human blood. A handful of Asian tourists gathered around me, anticipating the white girl’s reaction. I concealed a grimace and gulped it down. The potent taste of whisky burnt the back of my throat, and the syrup coated my tongue, masking whatever was the blood’s true flavour. I gave my brightest smile. Delicious.

In an attempt to create an eco-friendly tour, low energy florescent tubes have replaced the standard light show. These dangle ominously above the band and vary their colour and pulsation for each song. This is fitting for a set that shows the band at their most eclectic. They open with the poly-rhythmic ‘15 Steps’ and include many of those ‘difficult’ electronic songs, such as ‘Everything in its right place’ – probably the most fantastically weird song ever played to such a huge audience. The only genuine crowd pleaser is a rousing rendition of ‘Just’ that is greeted with fervour. However, Radiohead fans are bookish aficionados who listen keenly to the most reserved moments. This is no surprise; I just never realised so many were allowed out this late (I was given special permission, incidentally.) It is this genuine appreciation that leads to Thom Yorke to thank us for our “good vibes,” as he had been petrified before coming on stage. The normally reticent front man even manages to rouse a ‘Free Tibet’ chant.

As the night closes in and the allotted time runs out, they make the brave choice to close with the electro freaky stomp of ‘Idioteque.’ - a song never likely to encourage lighters in the air and a final sing-a-long. Nevertheless, it’s an inspired choice by a big band that still manages to excite with their unpredictability.

Illustrations by Nick Brookes