Another price paid for the Swedish trip. I thought our Ryan Air experience was bad enough, but it now seems I was bitten quite frequently by mosquitos during the night of the gig.
Airborne blood-suckers who constantly drain you of your health and resources without reason or fairness, and leave only a lasting irritation in exchange. But enough about Ryan Air.
My lower legs, calves and ankles are riddled with bites. On my right calf there’s three little bites neatly in a row, followed by one huge bite. With the inflammation blending together, it looks like a large birthmark in the shape of a guitar, which at least makes some sense. Pink on white.
It’s just take, take, take with some insects.
***
My last day in London for a week. Today it’s the first day of the Latitude Festival in Suffolk, and I have to find somewhere there to park my red sleeping bag, for tonight only. It’s the one night my parents’ cottage in nearby Southwold isn’t available. Miss Red texts me to say that her spare tent isn’t going to be free after all. So it’s going to be interesting. I shall just turn up, ask around, and hope for the best. I wouldn’t mind sleeping in the open air in my all-weathers sleeping bag, assuming I can shelter from the forecast light showers. Watch this space. I will survive.
The festival ends on Sunday, but I’m staying on at the cottage in Southwold till Wednesday morning, just because it’s such a lovely place to stay. In fact, I’m hoping to rent a place there later this year, off-season, just for myself.
I’m wearing two hats at Latitude this year. One is my DJ hat, as one of the Beautiful And Damned DJs, along with Miss Red. We’re doing sets on all four evenings, starting tonight in the Film & Music Tent, then moving on to the Cabaret Arena for the rest of the festival. On a couple of occasions I note our slot is immediately followed by a live performance by the Puppini Sisters, whose records I often play when DJ-ing. I’m not sure if it’s good DJ etiquette to play a performer’s records just before they take to the stage themselves. Possibly not.
The other hat is as a writer for the festival’s own website. I shall be contributing at least two blog entries a day over at the website, so keep an eye over there if nothing is appearing here.
Last year I was merely a wandering punter, but despite this strangers did come up to me and ask what time I was on. Being a member of the audience is clearly a role in which I am just not convincing enough. If I watch a comedian, they often spot me and make some comment on my appearance. Which is one reason why I rarely go to comedy shows by myself, unless it’s someone who doesn’t stoop to the cliches of audience belittlement, such as Stewart Lee.
But sometimes there are comedians who put an original and refreshing spin on the hoary old standbys of the stand-up. Last year at Latitude I was watching Josie Long, with the very stylish author Sophie Parkin at my side.
Said Ms Long, ‘I’d just like to point out that there’s a lady over there dressed like Truman Capote. And that next to her is a MAN dressed like Truman Capote.’
Which is of course a high compliment in my book. And makes a change from the usual Andy Warhol cat-calls. Though my favourite remains the following, shouted at me on the street:
‘Oy! The 80s!’
Not resembling someone from the 80s, but looking like a whole decade. Not even ‘Mr 80s’. Just ‘The 80s.’
Off to catch the train.
