Kendal Calling 2010

I woke up dishevelled and disorientated. My brain felt like it was trying to climb out of my skull and my liver had been replaced with an alcohol-soaked sponge. The events leading up to this point have been erased from my mind, but miraculously I seem to have managed to find my way back to my tent in one piece.

I vaguely recall seeing a bit of the Dub Pistols - the band I was probably looking forward to most - but having consumed gargantuan qualities of sherbet lemon vodka and numerous cans of cider my brain seems to have gone into survival mode, concentrating on keeping me alive rather than committing the evening to memory. I’ve been assured that I watched Calvin Harris, and through the recollections of others I have managed to piece together an idea of my itinerary: essentially I just drank from a catheter bag and stumbled around sending incoherent text messages to people back home. Sorry Nyah.

Saturday was a more sedate affair. Having wet-wiped the grime from my face I skipped merrily into the arena to meet my friends and eat the most awesome meat pie I’ve ever had the pleasure of ramming into my face. The New York Tourists woke up the Lake District with their brash pop before my appointment with Howard Marks later in the afternoon. Eager to secure myself a seat at the feet of my favourite dope-smuggler I arrived extraordinarily early and plonked myself at the base of the great man’s microphone stand. And there I sat. And sat. And sat.

The first thing I sat through was a pub quiz conducted in the style of Shooting Stars. The compere was not quite Vic or Bob, but questions such as ‘Harold Shipman and The Yorkshire Ripper: who is better?’ were always likely to get an inebriated audience chuckling. With news that Howard was running late, Danny Mahon took to the stage with his sardonic brand of Mancunian wit (and lots of songs featuring the word ‘twat’). By this point my bladder was achingly full, but I was determined I would not move – even if it meant urinating in my pants. Thankfully it didn’t come to that – as Danny Mahon exited a foppish young magician appeared with a top hat, a collection of coloured scarves and the news that Howard couldn’t make it. I’ve never seen so many disgruntled punters leave a venue so quickly.

At a loose end and with my friends spread over the entirety of the site I decided to check out some tunes and found myself getting shot by OK Go’s confetti cannon. They were enormously pleased to be there, bantered wittily between tunes and were extremely good fun.

Reunited with brother and sister duo Adam and Zoe Lee we set out for the Futureheads accompanied by a large bag of rosé and low expectations. I can never tell whether I’m listening to the Futureheads or Maximo Park and despite having seen them play at a number of festivals I wasn’t convinced that I knew any of their songs. I was very wrong – they pulled out familiar tune after familiar tune, leapt around the stage with gay abandon, instigated a singalong and brought the sunshine with them. Delightful.

The Wild Beasts were next to take the stage. I want to like them, I really do. Whenever I’ve listened to them at home, though, I’ve found the vocals to be aural nails on a metaphorical blackboard. In the open air, however, the voice was more mellow and muted and they were agreeable background music as we quaffed our 2010 vintage wine from salvaged plastic cups.

Next up, a civilised pair of poetry readings. Well, not quite. First, Mickey P Kerr took to the Soapbox Stage in a somewhat ‘altered’ state. Despite being drunk and possibly off his tits he delivered a fantastic collection of hilariously deadpan diatribes about the state of the world. He was followed by the inimitable Bard of Salford, John Cooper Clarke. Looking like an emaciated version of Russell Brand’s father he creaked onto the stage with a plastic Sainsbury’s bag filled with new material and proceeded to charm the pants off the audience with his sneery Manchester accented poetry.

Despite thoroughly enjoying the poetry i needed to get centre stage for Doves, so took my leave and mooched to the front of the main stage. I slipped in surprisingly easily and grabbed the front barrier as they launched into Kingdom of Rust. I’ve definitely seen Doves play better sets, but an encore including There Goes The Fear and Space Face is always gonna be a winner and the crowd went home happy.

Happily, i didn’t go home. Thanks to Kendal’s spiffing licence things run until late in the night. An appointment with Evil Nine awaited in the dance tent and with Adam, Zoe and our new friend Dee Dee we had a bounce around, a late night trip to the welfare tent for a sit on some comfy sofas and then got our heads down ahead of Sunday shenanigans...

After rounding up my new crew – Dee Dee, Nuts, Harriet, Ray and the rest, we just about caught the end of Kid British before i scuttled to the front for a skank to the magnificent King Blues – a riotous wake up call if ever there was one. I absolutely loved every second of their show – from the singalong chorus of One Love to the ‘fuck the BNP’ messages, everything was performed with passion and as much arrogance as a singer with a tiny ukulele can muster. They deserve to be much, much bigger.

Badly Drawn Boy was up next looking shockingly grey. But despite the hair, Damon Gough has aged well. Whenever i’ve seen him before he’s been overly fussy about tuning and retuning his guitar and smoking furiously. Now, the cigs have gone and he seems much more relaxed as a performer. With a set culled largely from his wonderful album Hour of Bewilderbeast he was charming and humble – none more so than when his eight year old daughter Edie joined him on stage to tinkle the ivories and provide backing vocals. A lovely moment.

It’s a lovely festival altogether. Kids are well catered for with giant games of pass-the-parcel at the main stage and face painting and circus workshops for free. The food is a cut above standard festival fare and the real ale bar is cracking. I’ve heard complaints about the security being over-zealous, but never saw any bother myself – just lots of happy faces and colourful headgear (including a splendid Indian headdress and a frightful green wig).

A more memorable meeting with Mr Marks next - he actually turned up on Sunday night, but my recollections of his set are hazy. I do remember a tale of being arrested at airport security and him calling someone a 'cunt' in heavily accented Welsh, but the rest remains a mystery.

Unfortunately i misplaced the Mancs ahead of The Coral but managed to regain G-Dog, Chris, Sarah, Helen and Andy. We had a chill on the hill whilst watching a largely underwhelming set from the Scousers. Although they have some lovely tunes they seem to lack a bit of charisma and a bit of oomph! Pass It On was probably the highlight but it’s noticeable that they really seemed to take off with Dreaming of You – a much more up-tempo song.

Suitably rested we took our positions in the Kaylied Tent for some Lancashire Hotpots action, some hip-hop from The Mouse Oufit and a top DJ set from Red Dwarf’s Craig Charles. Bouncing around like a grinning Energiser bunny he delivered what we were promised – his Funk & Soul Show. I had a funkin’ good time, but one by one the effects of the weekend took their toll as the runners and riders dropped out of the race. Eventually, with heavy legs and tired eyes i tramped to my tent for the final time and immediately fell asleep in a puddle of white wine. Ace.

The journey home was arduous. An accident on the motorway led to a diversion we could well have done without – five people and their camping gear crammed into a car is neither comfortable or pleasurable: especially when JLS are providing the soundtrack. But we got back safely (via the Burger King at Scotch Corner) and have lived to tell the tale of a wonderful weekend of making friends, making shapes and making merry in a big park in the Lake District. See you next year in the fields...