So much expected from a shitty cow field, lured by the promise of freedom I sit the back seat and sup from my case of gold. A serial weekend offender turning up in the countryside just because the fucking suns shining and the music's playing; from the grass beneath our feet to the cider I drink this shall be a most holy experience.

Let me believe it at least as the rays warm my face, the reality being an altogether more middle class, stage-managed 48 hours, herded like the previous incumbents of this Promised Land:

Arrive: tagged, wristband: paid. Now: go here do this. There: do this then. Milked my love, milked.

I'd like to throw a fucking spanner in the works, be unpredictable, out of control but they've thought of that and its all taken care of, the mavericks are taken care of, its just all so nice, even the nudists and thugs are taken care of, they care too fucking much, all are welcome. I'll wear my tag, annoyingly wear it with pride for the next 6 months until it frays off my wrist and you cant where I've been but you'll know I was trying to be cool in a field with the suggestion that I was completely waxed off my moustache. A ragged flag fluttering in the face of the shit weather and the boring fuckers to come my way. A flag that gently waves a couple of fingers to the tedium of Mondays and the like. If it allows me for one weekend to waste myself soaked in the sweaty fumes of hedonism, I'll wear it. I'd have to be, wouldn't I, I've a turn to take, stardom beckons Saturday on the unsigned- nobody gives a shit stage. Confirmed.

Words I've been singing in the car for the last 2 years, a guitar I'll have you believe is my most precious possession that I picked up from a car boot, its barley been in tune for half my life. Now I'm loaded with the desire to share my pathetically self-indulgent songs with a crowd made up of mates and mates of mates mates and the stoners who cant be arsed to move through fear of the ground rising to slap their docile faces, cows, cows and more cows. Nervous as a virgin on results night I'm trying not to think it through as daydreams end in disaster.

The Buckingham pub circuit limply clapped my efforts at times, back slaps of relief maybe but if enough of them turn up now I'll be glad of it. Either side of this lifetimes performance of naïve indie gold, I'll be wittering on about the sad delusions of other monkeys and how they could do better, what a fecious cunt, trying too hard to be cool and looking like a tit. Ah it helps the nerves.

Tent erection is a dying art, some have the talent, and some don't. The same people build ikea furniture for fun. Stand back I'll pitch you a sea of canvas, tight as sails. Ships to sail this bovine wonderland, close to nature, not the side of a mountain, or the frontier lands of the Sahara, but still an adventure within our island of green. Every peg driven in the ground is a little flag staking a claim on this patch of earth that promises so much.

From the moment we arrive I prescribe to a dietary cocktail of natural highs and herbal potions shaken up for a weekend of being someone else. I gave up chemicals before I had chance to enjoy them, catholic fucking guilt I say. Stupid enough to believe the bullshit I'd go blind if I wanked too much, pills and the like were my chemical wanking, I might choke on my own ruptured spleen, no-one else had but I might just happen to me. Prick.  

The sun shines halle-fucking-ullah, I packed light, no wet weather option. For fear of getting it all nicked by a fucking pikey I packed minimal; 1 pillow to share, 2 sleeping bags, 1 camera (zip tied to the ladies wrist), 1 Indian headdress, 1 pair of fairy wings, 1 baloo from jungle book mask, 2 unicorn horns, 1 red lycra dance suit, 1 Freddie mercury stick on tash, 6 pairs of sunglasses, 1 hi vis vest, 3 feather boas, 2 sets of pixie ears. Looking a tit whilst pretending to be someone your not is absolutely essential for pub stories, and if you can get pictures in the paper or dance on stage in the process it's licence for the 'big fish' stories for fucking years.

I've got the set list, big head for a small stage. Bored my girlfriend with performances of songs written for her, she says they're great; her eyes lie. Fuck it, its my 15 minutes, I'll milk it today and dine on it for the next 6 years until I get the bollocks to do it again in a folky, beardy disguise. For now, the more I and the rest of us look like Hackney crack whores the better, middle England is not safe from the skinny white streaks of piss with too much money and not enough respect.

Warning: Westons Organic cider cures colds, headaches and holds at bay the symptoms of sensibility. In generous proportions taken 12 times a day it can bring on delusions of grandeur and hallucinogenic tendancies.

The lil' lady suggests a sleep late morning, after three pints of West Country weasel juice, I'm crawling. Sex under canvas should be a quiet, restrained British affair; it offers no sound muffling, that's what the pillow's for apparently. A face full of feathers and fur, a wet patch drying on my leg as I sleep. Its a last meal before the chair. A field of families may just have heard me under-perform for the first time today, it probably put them off coming to see me later. I wake in panic, plectrum, good word, where'd I put my plectrums, top pocket. Found.

Check the time and its time. The show goes on. One night only. Waiting at the side of the stage, another mockney accented pretty teen, big hair, piano pop, tits and arse, the crowd knows she's not lily Allen, she knows it, they clap, she's got it, I don't. my turn. Here we go.

This is it, I get 20 minutes, 5 songs, the sun beams like a spot light, I throw a reddner, stutter my name in the unplugged mic, get plugged in half way through, the crowd now think my name's shit bugger, oh whistle and hum. I thank them for coming, recognise a few faces and know half of them are here feeling the guilt of loyalty. The first song starts without me, my hands want to play the chords I've contorted them into playing, its become a reflex, I relax. Tap my feet, bang my guitar and sing like I mean it. By the end of the song most people are just thankful I didn't make an arse of myself. There's still time. Feet are shuffling, heads are nodding, hands are clapping, voices are singing back to me. I'm predictable yes but the fuckers are actually listening. The occasion's got to them, probably the cider too, they're carrying the crowd with them, pointing and squirming in the reflected glory of knowing someone arrogant enough to think what I've got to say is worth listening to.

A toe tapping hoedown finishes the set; the harmonicas shrill slides over their heads shouting for more. An encore, I've got a locker full of this wanking guitar to last another hour, one song is all they're after. A hero, a fucking hero, limp wrested fag to local hero in 6 songs. Transformation. Too nervous to be nervous, the pressure was on disaster to happen and the fucker blinked. The lil' lady, although genuinely pissed by now thinks I'm a star, I'm famous in our house at least and that'll do. The Dead Horse Rodeo lives for me and let me ride on its back so I could be the showman, escaping Monday for a wee while longer. The field is a better place, I walk around in circles taking the nods and back slaps, sweet nectar for my ego. I couldn't quite give a shit what happens now, I've stared the dog down and arrived in time to enjoy the rest of the rodeo.

The headliners take me away, I dance on my straw hat, playing on the frontiers of freedom in that field. I hold her so tight at times we melt. I loose my sunnies, another 5 pairs for tomorrow, handy.

We head off into the dark, leaning on love. The sky has rearranged itself tonight, I can see through the vent in the portaloo door a diamante donkey dot to dot, a carousel of monkeys, cold plastic on my face feels comfortable, must make it to the tent, rodeo sleeps.