The Polecats dedicating a song to me.
The Polecats going berserk on stage.
The strawberry milkshake on sale at the site/sight.
Bono waving to me from the stage (I waved back, so did hundreds of other people. I was embarrassed. But Bono said he was waving to me "It's funny but I always spot you." It's my nose.)
U2 not being too rock 'n' roll.
The walk away from the stadium on Sunday night.
Three Tia Marias at the hotel on Sunday night after leaving Rory Gallagher to get on with whatever it was or may once have been.
Elvis Costello saying hello to me in the hotel bar on Saturday night.
Ian Dury talking about Jack De Manio at breakfast on Sunday, and anticipating appearing on Brian Matthews' Radio Two show the next day.
Tim of The Polecats telling me that I'm Jake Riviera's least favourite "journalist." Wind up or not, I blushed.
Missing all but three minutes of Dr Feelgood's set.
Missing all but ninety seconds of Rory Gallagher's game.
Not even knowing if Fist, Diamond Head, Huang Chuang and whoever replaced Pauline Murray actually played.
Spotting Brendan Foster.
Being mistaken for Ian Penman.
The Polecats' van breaking down as they tried to make a sensible getaway — the battery had gone flat because they'd been watching too many videos.
Like all pudding mild mares, the rock on the Tyne just wouldn't hurry up and let me go. Lifelessness was in the air: my mind was numbed, my feet were jammed, the view was the same. You're acquainted with that whopping list of complaints: The Festival Review — a stiffening parody of such an event's deadlock. Tyne was, even with Saturday's gesture towards American New Wave/the play abandon of new pop, yet another show down of bald stability.
The Festival, any outdoor pop roll-up lull, has past the point of being a toothless