Man In A Panic

Stalking Lady Sov

So Zach in the office goes to Coachella and falls in love with England's finest rhyme-spitting shorty, Lady Sovereign.

And after 27 cups of warm Heineken and a James, his brain flares like a neural supernova, his mind now open to the logical truth:

• Lady Sov is playing in 'Frisco on June 9th (with The Streets)
• He'll build a website asking Joe Public to donate $10,000 so that he can lure her with the promise of a truly cracking night out...
• To entice traffic, he'll film himself doing Eminem-karaoke dressed as a jelly donut...
• ...and persuade the agency receptionist to wobble about a bit too..
• The media will get hold of it, he'll get his money and then get his girl...if only for a few hours.

Well, I tell you, the mildly cynical among us thought it might not work.

But $692 dollars, 20 thousand visitors, interviews with every San Francisco newspaper and a feature on the front page of Spin magazine later, we're beginning to nibble our hats.

Good luck, Zach!  Although I'm not sure what you see in the filthy little strumpet.

White & Wobbly

Every morning, without fail, the lucky employees on the 5th floor of GSP can feast their brand-weary eyes on this splendiferous wobbleramous of female fatitude.

The full frontal horror show is between 10.00am and 10.15am, depending on how high a stack of pancakes she has to munch through before nature calls...

We're trying to come up with a slogan for her.  Any thoughts?

Coachella

So I'm back from Coachella - a two day music festival in the desert near Palm Springs. Think of it as the Californian Glastonbury but with sunburnt shoulders in place of muddy trousers.  Madonna, Daft Punk, Massive Attack, Kanye West and a hundred other bands sweating blood for 80,000 pilgrims.  An intriguing mixture of LA plastic people, goths, frat-boys and famine-tourists.  And it was frickin' hot.  Hot, hot, hot.  My memory has melted it was so hot.

Let's get my completely objective music review out of the way first.

Sunny Oasis:  Daft Punk, The Go Team, that Rabbi rasta bloke for his human beatboxing,  Kanye West doing A-ha, Phoenix

(and yes those brilliant videos are mine)

Head In The Sand:  The Scissor Sisters and the absurdly pompous rock-headliners 'Tool' (who, thank rock, never seem to have made it to Blighty).  Cocks, the lot of them.

Right.  What else? 

Well mostly I remember being very, very hot and very, very thirsty.  That's deserts for you.  But while Mother Nature can be squarely blamed for my pink, throbbing forehead, it was America's infantile drinking laws that had me gasping for a beer.  Oh, and this super hot dancer in her 'Seventies Funk' towelling not-hot-pants...(click the little play button on the bottom and you'll stay on this page)

You see, even in the desert, it seems that a cold beer can bedevil the souls of the under-21s.  So first, you have to stand in line and prove with a driving license that you have the moral strength to deal with fizzy, mildly intoxicating amber fluids.  Then the fun starts.  You CAN buy a beer at Coachella but only in 'designated drinking pens' ...and once you've fought your way through to the bar, you're stuck behind a chicken wire fence until you've finished your 7 dollar cup of warm Heineken.  Music festival a la Guantanamo Bay. 

Inevitably though, with my testicles hotter than the sun's core, I was keen to knock back a lager or twelve.  So I enjoyed most of the acts at an oblique angle, 2.3 miles from the stage.  Grandma Madge was a whirling squeaky dot in the distance. Half an hour late too, the bitch.

We had a lot of fun though - especially because we shunned camping in favour of a big house with a pool.  But the Pilton Pop Festival wins hands down - rain or shine, bring on 2007.