How I learned to love silence.

As is always the case, the TV coverage of T In The Park makes it look the swine flu-ridden younger sibling of big brother Glastonbury and as a result it’s been a largely frustrating time spent flicking around the red button in the hope of finding something good. Last night, we were kept waiting until ten to eleven to be treated to all of twenty three minutes of the Manics‘ set, seemingly chopped together by somebody with no ears, so disturbingly shite were the audio edits while the odd bit of the Pet Shop Boys has crept out on today’s red button coverage with as little fanfare as possible. On the plus side, if you like a bit of Idlewild you could have watched it many, many times on the red button. And then a few more times, for good measure.

There’s also been the delights of the ‘InTimate Stage’ – see what they did there? – which has looped round on one of the interactive channels for most of the weekend. A great idea if they actually had lots of intimate performances to show. Instead, they had Glasvegas, Maximo Park and a depressingly awful collaboration between Franz Ferdinand and Edwyn Collins. I wanted it to be good, I really did, but it being shown nigh on fifty times isn’t going to suddenly improve its quality.

As I type, Blur are playing after a delayed start and yet we’re being treated to Keane. Thanks for that. Apparently, Graham‘s been in hosptial and Blur very nearly had to pull out. Reports out of the festival appear to suggest that Snow Patrol‘s set was delayed and extended. Now there was the potential for adding insult to injury – a cancellation from Blur and in replacement even more Snow Patrol. Thankfully, Graham appears to have recovered and Blur took to the stage somewhere around about 10.20pm. I think ruby-faced farmer boy used to sing better when smashed off his tits. Not that there’s much in it.

I’m aware that this is becoming almost stream of consciousness-like in its structure, so I’ll not say much more. Suffice to say, Reggie and Edith continued to be woeful hosts. The one person who presumably had no problem with this was Nick Grimshaw, who in their company appeared to be a presenting colossus. In a scarf. Possibly two. Lily Allen was still great, Lady GaGa still seemed a little unhinged and – just to keep the regular visitors happy – seemed to be dressed to over maximum ladybit exposure risk. Pet Shop Boys looked great from what I saw, Manics were splendid last night, Doves were in good form earlier but, over the whole weekend thus far, it was The Specials who delivered the most enjoyable performance for those sofabound. Bloody marvellous they were. So much so that I actually did a ska dance round the living room for most of the set. Nip over to the BBC site to see some of that set for the next six days.

Perhaps appropriately, as I come to save this post, Franz and Edwyn are on again on the ‘InTimate Stage’ stream. Nope, still shit.

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