I spent Thursday at The Wireless Festival, having blagged a free VIP ticket off one of my music industry contacts (dontcha know). And yeah, it was kind of shit. Pete Doherty was on, doing his sublime impression of a pretentious posho knobhead posing as a mental retard. He impressed no-one with his refusal to come out of his trailer "just because" for half an hour, thereby making the whole concert run late, least of all Kasabian who greeted the crowd upon finally getting to come on stage (but having to play a reduced set) by saying "Now you're going to get to see a real fucking band". And quite right too; live, they are smashing.
My VIP pass kind of disappointed too. No hot celebrity cocaine action was going on. The best I saw was Sandy from Big Brother (who was much greyer than he used to be, and scowling) and that wasn't even in our special tent; he was mingling with the plebs.
Pathetically, I was exhausted by the end of it. There's no way I could manage a whole weekend jobby nowadays.
I managed a further low calibre celeb spot this weekend, when I found myself sat on a bus in Clapham next to Nicholas Burns, star of Chris Morris and Charlie Brooker's embarrassingly bitter comment on the young and fashionable - dressed up as a critique of the cult of the idiot - Nathan Barley. There was something deliciously ironic, I thought, about the man who mockingly portrayed the epitome of the smug and grotesque characters to be found in Shoreditch himself being a resident of the ever so self satisfied Clapham district.
5 weeks ago