It was one of those uncomfortably hot nights. We're due to get more of them soon, and worse, as the midday temperatures are predicted to reach thirty degrees centigrade, which is the offically the point at which the British melt. Sleeping on nights like those is defined as the moments of weariness between rolling around in your own sweat. Instead, I sat bleary eyed and watched television, idlely flicking through channels in the vain hope of finding a programme that was even remotely interesting.

Oh hello, what's this? Coverage of the Glastonbury Festival? Cool. At least that's the only thing this evening that is. Better yet, on stage are Crosby, Nash... Erm... Crosby, Stills, Young, and.. No that's not right either... Well, a bunch of seventies rock stars, now suitably aged, with the obligatory girlfriend on the xylophone, looking more like a music teacher these days.

I was shocked. I really was. The performance was almost shambolic. The drummer kept good time but not the same one as the songs. The guitarist played his battered instrument with all the grace of a drunken elephant. But you know, the crowd still loved it. To the repeated encores of Rockin' In The Free World the crowd swayed back and forth.

I sat slack jawed and marvelled at their longevity.

Reminder of the Week

One of the great disadvantages of hot humid weather is the necessity to keep the window open. That unfortunately means it's difficult to shut out the noise of the local wildlife, and in the wee small hours, a local loudmouth complained bitterly, and at the top of his voice, that he couldn't drive my car. Comes as no suprise to me, mate. Now go away and throw up on somebodies pavement, which is about all you're good for.

Funny thing is, if he spent a little less on getting drunk, he might be able to save up enough to pay for a car of his own. I wonder if he's thought of that?