Retreat! Retreat!

Cuellar signs, looks good, what do I know anyway? At least now they've signed Whittaker they won't keep banging on about Hutton being the 'best right back in Scotland'.

A fair chunk of time has passed since my last blog, a few things have happened.

* I got a job. If you're applying through clearing to Dundee university, you're coming through me.
* My T in the Park tickets never came.
* I acquired around 3 litres of various rums.
* I discovered some new bands.
* I lined up another job for term time in the Union.
* I got overdrawn as fuck.
* I travelled over 3000 miles in a Fiat Punto.

June started fairly leisurely, I had no job, no resits and hardly any cash. A twelve hour shift at the Graduation Ball topped up my bank nicely and my newly acquired overdraft set me up beautifully for our trip to Spain.

I should probably explain that since February, I've had a ticket for the largest music festival in Spain; Benicassim. Beast and Glen decided that instead of taking the relatively simple trip to Oxford and repeating our drunken escapades at Truck, that we'd move on from harassing middle England and take our particular talents to continental Europe. Before leaving, the score stood somewhere around this:

Middle England 0 - 1 Scots on Tour.
Continental Europe 0 - 0 Scots on Tour.
Truck Festival 0 - 0 Benicassim

Despite having the ticket and knowing that we were going, the minute and insignificant detail of 'How do you get to Spain?' was not addressed for some time. At this point, a drunken fan rampaged across the pitch and pour beer through several orifices. A drunken conversation between Beast and Glen centered around travel eventually led to; 'You know what'd be funny, we could DRIVE to Spain'.

Common Sense 0 - 1 Drunken Nonsense.

Despite the sheer scale of the task that is navigating France and Spain, the seed of an idea was planted and it was decided, (In my own defence, I was reminded that driving meant I could stow crates of Tennents Lager in the car.) that the three of us would pile into Clarabel (Glen's trusty Punto) and take off at high speed. The trip went something like this;

Day 1- Friday 13th July.
I had a job interview in Dundee for the University and as far as I knew, a gig to play in Glasgow. Glen had decided to hang around in Dundee for some Kaddish and Archives action and Beast was slaving over some chips in McDonalds. As soon as my interview was over I piled onto a Megabus and headed for Glasgow, only to find out the gig was cancelled and so a train to Carluke. Glen's Kaddish action was cut short by a blown amp and then stretched to breaking point as he drove from Dundee to Carluke via Glasgow in horrendous rain. Beast kept flipping burgers. Eventually after arriving in Carluke with Vicky, Glen seemed close to death. His incessant giggling hiding his realisation that we were driving to Spain in the morning. Juice was drunk, lights switched off and Glen, Vicky and I caught some sleep. Beast told a customer that Big Tasty sauce was not available.

Day 2 - Saturday 14th July.
Bright and early, we all struggled out of bed and loaded the last of the gear into the car. Just as we were about to leave, Beast and Mags pulled up in the Beastmobile and so a hair raising trip to Bogside was avoided. Finally ready for the big off, Clara pulled out of Old Bridgend and headed for Frome.
A fairly uneventful day in all, apart from the apprehension of a 'Terror suspect' a mile or so down the road in front of us. We arrived in Frome, a three way high five went spectacularly wrong and all three boys wandered into Vicky's house with sore faces. After some generous hospitality, we wandered down to Vicky's local with the promise of Cider dangling like a carrot on a stick. 3 pints of 'Black Rat' (Basically the Tennents Super of the Cider world) and Glen hits the floor, as does Vicky. Beast and Graeme feel fine, and all is well.

Day 3 - Sunday 15th July
As lazy mornings go, this Sunday morning was pretty lazy. Watching Good Charlotte tear it up at Rock Am Ring did little to encourage movement from the sofa. Eventually we roused and headed for some lunch. A stop in Bradford on Avon was however, a good idea. With cooked breakfasts large enough to feed the whole of Africa or half of Johnny Vegas we were set up beautifully for a leisurely drive to Plymouth. The road to Plymouth was fairly boring, until we came upon a handily placed sign for the myth, the legend, Buckfast Abbey. With Glen storming over two lanes to get to the sliproad there was one thing for damn sure, three Scotsmen were going to visit the Holy Grail.

National Sterotypes 1 - 0 Dignity.

We took a good half hour wandering around the grounds, (The gift shop was shut-devastated) taking pictures and generally getting far too excited about an Abbey.

Sadly, we had to leave and didn't see any Monks. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful as we got to Plymouth, stumbled upon a Rangers bar and had a pint of Tennents and then headed for the Ferry.

Ferry entertainment really is akin to setting a bag full of cats alight, and then amplifying the sound. With this in mind, Glen and I hit the cocktails as Beast looked on with disdain. We headed back to the cabin, slept and snored.

Day 4 - Monday 16th July

The longest day in the history of man. After getting off the Ferry at Roscoff and getting mildly lost in the town of Roscoff we got on the motorway and started heading south. The journey was characterised by several recurring themes;

* French service stations are awful.
* Things in France are cheaper.
* Rain.

A lot of rain. Once we got going the cities starting toppling like dominoes. Rennes, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Perpignan. Bordeaux to Toulouse was by far the worst of these, as it appeared Mother Nature had a personal vendetta against us. It could've had something to do with our 'carbon footprint' growing to the size of Andre the Giant's, but I don't care, that bitch has shit on us.

Mother Nature 0 - 1 Scots on Tour.

We powered through the terrifying rain, spray and trucks and managed to reach the Spanish border. A quick stop allowed us to fill up on 'Burn' and 'Dark Dog' energy drinks, Pro-Plus and Skittles. The next few hours are a bit of a wired blur, but by now frustration was starting to grow. We'd managed to complete underestimate just how far Benicassim was from the border and latterly, just how far it was from Barcelona. Around 3am however, we finally reached the town of Benicassim. Although we assumed we'd now 'arrived', we were painfully mistaken. Despite being the biggest festival in the country, the Spaniards had managed to keep it a secret from the people of the town. An amazing feat, but easily executed by not putting up a single sign or acknowledgment that the festival was in fact going on. After the best part of an hour we finally managed to find a helpful policeman who pointed us in the direction of Bonet campsite. One more hairy U-Turn on a three lane trunk road and we'd made it to a car park. It was at this point that the worst moment of the trip occurred, and Glen uttered the five worst words in the English language;
'I can't find my ticket'.
The look which was painted to Beast's face was horrible, after 30 seconds Glen had resigned himself to the fact that God did not want him to get to this festival. A minute later, the ticket was found. Ten minutes later, we had a tent up and a Tennents cracked open. Twenty minutes later and I was crashed out in Beast's tent.

Continental Europe 0 - 1 Scots on Tour
Tiredness 1 - 0 Desire to drink.

Days 5/6/7 - Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday 17/18/19th July
These days all merge into one really. We spent the first day just scoping out our surroundings and seeing what was going on, we drank big bottles of San Miguel, sat on the beach and jumped around in the sea, complained about how it was too hot to move and generally smelt bad.
We finally made it to Thursday and the first evening of music. Beast, Glen, Fran and her mates and I wandered from the campsite to the festival site through the town. Despite not really knowing where we were going, following the crowd seemed to work well.
Bright Eyes were a pleasant surprise for me, despite never really being that into them on CD their live show with a twenty piece band was fairly pleasant as the sun went down. Iggy and the Stooges were both entertaining and a total let down at the same time. The entertainment came about half way through the second song when Iggy invited the crowd to 'Come and party with the Stooges'. Cue: Mayhem. Punters trying to jump the barrier left right and centre were grabbed by security as Iggy protested: 'NO! Let them up here!'. Apparently festival safety and protocol goes out the window if Iggy says so. The result was impressive as around fifty (a hundred? I've no idea) crowd members danced around with the Stooges. The let down came from Iggy not playing either Passenger or Lust for Life. I mean, you have two big songs that everyone knows and you don't play them at a festival? While heading for the exit we stumbled across a Peaches Geldof DJ set. I learned two things from this:
1. Peaches Geldof cannot DJ, at all.
2. Some people deserve a litre of water in the face, and when they get it, it is brilliant.

Day 8 - Friday 20th July
The day started off like all the others did, hot. We went and got some lunch and headed for the beach. But come early evening, finally, the first full day of music began.
We started out the evening with Rufus Wainwright, which was fairly pleasant. I've always got time for people who can play a piano well, so he got a thumbs up. We sat around outside the tent for Anthony and the Johnsons which while decent to have in the background, was fairly non-descript and not that interesting. We then moved to the main stage to catch Wilco and Dinosaur Jr. Wilco were very, very impressive. Their lead guitarist (Who according to Wikipedia, is called Nels Cline) was amazing. Good tunes and some genuinely talented musicians, culminating into what was more or less Nels Cline and Jeff Tweedy having a guitar off with each other attempting to outdo each other. We then went and caught a bit of Klaxons, but a combination of being right at the back and the fact that Klaxons are totally gash left me feeling a little bored. Dinosaur Jr. were a perfect break from jangly guitars as they riffed and shouted their way through a loud, loud set.
Standing on concrete is hard, so we took a break and sat in front of the big screen and watched The Rapture. I say we, I really mean me as Beast slept through their set and woke up to the opening bars of 'House of Jealous Lovers'. Git.
We then wandered back across to the main stage to partake in what has to be one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. Five middle aged men ran across the stage in yellow jumpsuits with plant pots on their heads shouting PEEKABOO. This, was Devo. Apparently. The show got stranger and stranger as they pulled off their yellow jumpsuits to reveal what looked like a referee's outfit and started throwing bouncy balls around. Oh yeah, and they had a massive baby thing running around as well.
I'm not saying it wasn't fun, I'm just saying I could've been on acid and imagined the whole thing.

Day 9 - Saturday 21st July
Yadda yadda yadda, heat, food, beach.
We got to the arena and headed straight for Albert Hammond Jr. who was great. Obviously his solo material is going to sound like the Strokes, but it was an altogether more chilled out experience. Sadly the power on the whole festival site was playing tricks on everyone and it cut out during his second last song, which was a massive anti-climax and a disappointing end to a great set. We then headed to catch some Nu-Rave. CSS are rubbish and I don't really have a great deal more to say about it. They've got one decent song and even it sounded poor. Thankfully, I didn't have to suffer to long with CSS ricocheting in my ears as we headed across the site to see the always enjoyable Camera Obscura. It was nice to see it wasn't just us that had had trouble trouble traveling as they seemed to have lost a member in transit... Saltires and Lion Rampants waved, it turned out we weren't the only Scots abroad. Good times.
Come the end of the set and suitably happy, we headed back to the main stage for two of the highlights of my week. As we arrived, the B-52's were firing in about Loveshack, much dancing was done. Then while sitting around the bar, a member of the B-52's muttered something about 'Rock Lobster' into the microphone. The look which was painted to both Beast and my faces was priceless... I assume. The disbelief only heightened when the band actually started playing...

"We were at the Beach, everybody had, MATCHING TOWELS!".

More shapes were busted. Vodka and red bulls were poured and the Arctic Monkeys took the stage. The Arctic Monkeys 'craze' was something that passed me by entirely, but as a festival band they were spectacular. Tight as a Scotsman a week from payday and with 'bangin' tunes as well, moves were busted, words were shouted and good times were had.

Beast, Super-fran and Glen stuck around for Fischerspooner. I'm soft, so went to sleep.

Day 10 - Sunday 22nd July.

The day started slightly different, as it began to rain for all of a minute and a half. It got a bit exciting, then stopped. So we went to get something to eat and sat on the beach.
As far as I was concerned, Sunday was always going to be the best day without too much contest.
The day started off well as we ran into our Dundonian friends Doug and Rob on the bus to the festival site. We all headed straight for Animal Collective in the tent and marveled at the 'misters' which sprayed the crowd with, as the name suggests, a mist of cool water. Absolutely brilliant. Animal collective passed me by a little bit as the kept coming close to something interesting before heading of on a tangent. The end of their set was strong though and I enjoyed it. Calexico were another 'Alt-country' outfit, all obviously very talented, especially the trumpet player. Altogether pleasant.
As we wandered to the main stage I began to get a bit excited. I've wanted to see the Hives for ages, for the simple fact that Howlin' Pelle Almqvist is one of the best modern day rock and roll frontmen. He didn't disappoint me as he climbed the sides of the stage to swing around on the lighting ladder while threatening to destroy us all with his rock and roll band if we did not obey.
'Los Hives' were followed by Kings of Leon, which was fairly apprehensive about. I really enjoy Kings of Leon on record, but when I last saw them at T in the Park they bored me half to death. This time however, they came over as a polished and quality rock and roll band. Playing the big songs from their new album as well as older songs like 'Molly's Chambers' kept me far more interested. If Kings of Leon were polished, the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club had been spat on, been smashed over someones head in a bar and covered in blood. They were filthy. They really do seem to be taking the whole rock and roll 'image' as gospel. Beast's predictions of half an hour of feedback either side of 'Whatever happened to my rock and roll' rang scarily true.
The pinnacle of the week had finally been reached. I'd made it through sixteen hundred miles to Spain and finally, Muse were coming on. Around about 26 seconds into Muse's set, the entire trip was worth it. All the hassle of driving and having to deal with ill mannered Spaniards, annoying Southern English people and ridiculous heat was blown away by the face melting riffs that Matt Bellamy was inflicting on the crowd. Sadly a short hour and a half later, it was all over. I was done, I stayed for a track of Unkle and decided that I'd rocked too hard at Muse and needed sleep.

Day 11 - Monday 23rd July

We woke around 12 O'clock and began to pack up the campsite. After sorting out who's clothes were who's in the tent and packing all of the bags we made an unsuccessful foray towards where we thought Fran and her friends were camped, alas, we managed to lose it despite being able to find it in the pitch black the day before. We trekked back through the town to our trusty Italian Stallion, loaded up the gear and headed for the motorway and France. Our plan for the day was to drive to Toulouse (Because it looked about half way), get a hotel and sleep the previous 6 days out of our system. The plan went surprisingly well.
The journey was fairly uneventful as we laughed our way through Chris Rock, Bill Hicks and latterly, the crudeness of Arab Strap. The only other notable feature was the sky approaching Toulouse, which the word spectacular genuinely fitted.
As we arrived on the Toulouse ring road, hotels were conspicuous by their absence. Just as we were beginning to spot several flaws in our plan, we stumbled across a cheap hotel and a restaurant directly across the road. Using my spectacular skills as a French speaker, I got us a room for the altogether fair price of €45. We then trooped across the road and found a restaurant offering us spicy chicken pizzas. With a hot meal, followed by a shower and a real bed, all three of us felt immensely better. It felt good to be in the civilised world again.

Day 12 - Tuesday 24th July
A fairly early start was required in order for us to be sure of catching the ferry. We took a quick trip to the nearby hypermarket to stock up on supplies (Chocolate milk, sweets and the new Harry Potter) and hit the road. Another uneventful day on the road was characterised by Glen's total and complete confusion at French toilets and the total and complete breakdown due to lack of food. Approaching Rennes we were all hungry and an eaterie of some kind was top of the agenda. Three industrial estates and a trip into the town later left us empty bellied. Glen started quacking, Beast stayed silent and I threatened death. Finally we found a McDonalds (A sentence I never thought I'd think) and got some food. A stop in the local hypermarket stocked us up with food for the boat and we headed for Roscoff.
Again uneventful, apart from when we left Beast at a wine warehouse and drove off.
We made it to the ferry. The car smelt bad, we smelt bad, there was chocolate milk everywhere and my socks smelt worse than anything in the world, but the relief was immense.
Once aboard the ferry, Glen and Beast headed off to watch Die Hard 4 and I ploughed deeper into Harry Potter and his peril... and a Guinness. The film finished and we all headed for what was the least comfortable sleep in history. Sleeping outside on a cheap-o sun lounger is nothing compared to trying to sleep on a choppy sea in a 'reclining seat'.

Day 13 - Wednesday 25th July
We got off the ferry and through passport control and finally, we were back in good old Blighty and in honour of our return, it was teeming down. The journey North from Plymouth was easily as tedious as any other, with all three of us just wanting to get home and to bed. Karl Pilkington, Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant kept us amused for a while but the tiredness of the previous dozen days was beginning to show. Needless to say, we dropped Beast off in Bogside and thundered up the road to Dundee.

We arrived about 7pm, tanned, tired, smelling bad but (I can't speak for the other two) I was fucking ecstatic. 3,400 miles later and we'd done it.