Prince Harry is a very, very wealthy man. He could probably get people killed if he wanted to. It must be brilliant being him, even with the whole Not Sure Who My Dad Is Now You Mention It thing.
With all those coins, cars and boats at his disposal, it’s not difficult to imagine that Harry can’t move for tail. The ladies invariably throw themselves at him, with dreams of being a real life princess.
However, the press are adamant that Harry should have sex with his sister-in-law, Pippa Middleton. That’s right! The rags are courting these two, pressing their noses up at windows, overlooking a non-existent sex life. It’s astonishing. And now, it seems that Pippa ‘the arse’ Middleton is falling for it, hook line and sinker, playing out the role of nagging girlfriend before they’ve even had chance to buy condoms.
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Five teenage boys are standing in a circle, arms locked around each others shoulders but this is no group hug.
They are all urinating into the centre.
They are ten metres away from the toilets.
Welcome to Leeds.
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Argghhh! Panic! The festival industry is dying! Run for the hills (well, the cities)! So, then Big Chill- what are you about? Should we be impressed or not?
You’re run by Festival Republic who really aren’t the leftwing revolutionary group that your name would like us to infer, but your line-up isn’t exactly the warmed up Radio 1 tedium soup of V.
If our weekend was anything to go by, it’s where the kind of punters who used to frequent Glastonbury now like to er.. chill.
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It’s ironic that the golden rule of capitalism is at work in something as historically left-of-centre as festivals. This summer the power of the market is separating the wheat from the chaff in festival-land.
The beauty of it is, that whilst money may be able to book a big headliner, it requires imagination to create a festival that fills a gap in the market. Sure, the results might not always be nice (the unwelcome rumours that the marvellous Truck Festival may be bust for instance) but it’s sure to guarantee that no-one’s complacent.
Camp Bestival was started as a more family-friendly version of Bestival. As the popularity of taking kids to festivals has grown, so has this (now medium sized) festival. The Sunday Best lot know their audience and they have enough confidence in their own instincts that they don’t feel the need to schedule the acts in order of record sales. An obvious example is the headliner on Friday night. Other festivals might relegate Blondie to a tent, and stick the flavour of the year on the main stage, but Sunday Best know their audience. Obvious really since the man in charge is a DJ (Rob Da Bank) and therefore has an intuitive grasp of what the next tune should be.
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Ah, festivals. Possibly the best thing about living in Britain is that because the weather is so dreary most of the year we party like idiots as soon as the sun comes out.
We used to have to either choose between about four festivals or go to Ibiza to combine hedonism and music. Now we are as spoilt for choice as a footballer in a lapdancing club.
So where are you going? There are small ones, big ones, dance ones, rock ones, ones for has-beens, ones for soon-to-bes. There are stupid amounts to choose from, but here are the ones that we would suggest…
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Hyde Park’s a funny old place, what with it seeming to have two festivals sharing the same field. And as we walked in, there was a Radio 1 style pop-event going on. Ke$ha was on stage. She is profoundly irritating. Do we really need to justify this with serious journalistic observation? Well, according to her wikipedia page she cites Banksy as an influence. What kind of name-dropping wank-sack musician cites a graffiti artist as an influence*?
Needless to say, her performance successfully manages to reflect the pretentiousness of this notion. She puts on a show, and makes more of an effort than a thousand Snow Patrols but after watching her, even Nelson Mandela would have to murder a stranger just to let off some steam.
Retro electro**-pop duo Chromeo are a charming act on record, and on stage some of that charisma does come across but the intricate production that distinguishes their sound is lost in the field today. Their albums take the ‘eighties if the eighties had actually been any good’ vibe that Les Rythmes Digitales pioneered and add a sprinkling of synth-funk on top of it. Bands can sink or swim in open air, and even tracks like Fancy Footwork and Bonafide Lovin’, the Canadian duo fail to do themselves justice.
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Trolling the carcass of Princess Diana is a very, very easy thing to do. Diana has the kind of fans that Michael Jackson would be proud of – bug-eyed nutters who howl in anguish at any kind of negativity thrown their way.
However, riling up these devotees isn’t easy. They’ve heard it all before, willing to shrug off the lamer of the insults levelled at their idol. However, there’s some words being thrown at Diana which are expertly pitched.
How about the one where Lady Di gets called an “anorexic, bulimic narcissist”?
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Princess Diana was the Queen of our Hearts. Apparently. Quite why, no-one has ever really said. It would appear that she’s attained a lofty position in our affections because she was reasonably good looking and joined the glamorous Died Too Young Club.
Of course, if she’s in heaven looking down on us all, it is fair to say no-one wants to stand near her because half of her head is missing after she redecorated the inside of a French tunnel.
But what would she look like if she’d lived? Well, there’s no need to try and imagine that now as Newsweek have decided to recreate her with the miracle of computer software and plastered her wizened face on their front cover. No. Seriously. They have. Click over the jump to see her Royal Liverspottery.
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