2004-07-07 - 12:56 a.m.

We were somewhere deep in the verdant heart of The Royal Botanic Gardens when the booze began to take hold. It was around 6pm on an oddly sunny day and I was staggering around trying to keep Coco on top of my shoulders without much success. He’s a 6’4” beanpole and it simply wasn’t a good idea. My chiropractor has since had me black-balled. I had been sent by Diaryland to cover Tweefest 04, which was being held in Glasgow’s trendy west end. Belle and Sebastian were headlining a tiny festival of wimp-rock featuring such luminaries as the Trash Can Sinatras and Camera Obscura. Nope, me neither. I thought it best to abandon any attempt at journalistic integrity in the more important and satisfactory pursuit of getting drunk. This was going to be quite the challenge as the rumour going round was that no alcohol would be permitted in the Gardens due to those darn Licensing Laws.

My attorney and I had no intention of following this mormonic notion, and a plan was quickly formulated involving a bottle of JD, a bag of ice, some Coca Cola and some inconspicuous paper cups. We stepped out of the Clockwork Orange underground into a right fucking carnival atmosphere. The streets were choked with asymmetrical haircuts, junk-shop shirts and Hello Kitty backpacks. If assholes could fly… etc. Safeway was busier than complimentary blowjob day on Christmas Eve but we managed to fight our way through the fey hordes to get our hooch. After much fannying about, we decided to chance sneaking in the whiskey without pouring it into the coke in true poor man’s hipflask style. The cops didn’t give a fuck. Far too many people with “picnics” (contained in retro-cool Thundercats lunch boxes) to try and confiscate anything. Hey, we’re all just here to have a good time, right, kids?! So we made our way high up the grassy knoll to meet up with some friends and to drown out the sound of whichever ragamuffin fags were playing down below.

Thanks to our own shortsightedness we were stuck with a large bottle of Jack Daniels between three of us which lasted about 10 minutes before fickle Rags decided he did want something to drink after all and was sent back out for a beer and cider run. Far more appropriate drinks given the circumstances but a bit of a headfuck when you’ve started the afternoon with the hard stuff. Fortunately, Nobody wanted to see any bands other than B&S, so we had plenty of time to kick back and laugh at the strange cast of characters surrounding us. Former Big Brother winner, the God-fearing dullard Cameron Stout was wandering about but unfortunately he didn’t come close enough for us to chuck ice at him. Richie took my picture with his digital camera and captured me saying “Shite!” with some sort of video gizmo. Mind blowing technology, man. If this was an eviiiiiile livejournal, you could probably see a picture of it here. Having hiked a good way into the forest to take a piss, I noticed various other figures lurking behind trees with the same idea. A bunch of guys in the woods with their dicks out, showering the ground with golden juice. It put me in mind of Jon Ronson’s awesome book Them when he infiltrates the secret ceremony At Bohemian Grove. No satanic Owl Gods here, though, just the sensitive soul of Stuart Murdoch: Ladyboy god of Looking Thoughtful In Glasgow Cafes.

Well, it was finally time to head down for the winsome warbling. Credit where it’s due, they’d turned the gayness down a lot from the last time I saw them and they were good enough to Play The Hits – I’m A Cuckoo, Dog On Wheels and Step Into My Office Baby are the three I remember. Then again, you only need to name three songs for a live review – count ‘em the next time you’re unlucky enough to be reading the NME (if you’re buried with one or something). Name three songs, talk about the singer’s cheekbones and finish the review with some ridiculous exaggeration like “Life changing” or “It doesn’t get any better than this”. Well I’ll say this about The Pseudo Smiths: OK, and cheers for the peachy day out! I’m just amazed they didn’t faint in the sunshine. This being Belle And Sebastian, the show finished before it was dark, so we spent the rest of the evening at the 13th note watching our friend Stitchy’s band X-Ray Delta 5 and getting drunk with a capital D. Not wanting to end the night on a high, I was rude to a few people before staggering off to get a £100 taxi home. Woke up in severe pain on Sunday in time to watch I’m With Busey and see England lose to France in Injury time. First Big Weekend of the summer, until next weekend when the Pixies are in town for T in The Park. If I survive it, expect a garbled recollection sometime next year. A summer wasting, indeed.

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