It wasn’t a totally negative experience at Green Man. We met some charming people there. At the Café on Thursday night, a group of fellows shared our table and fell laconically into conversation as we supped our pints o’ ale. They hailed from Blackburn and owned plenty of beards although their leader and talisman – name of Vic – was clean-shaven and debonair. My word, they knew their music: a brief mention of Sufjan Stevens and they were quoting obscure lyrics back at one, a fleeting recall of an underground lo-fi band led to them parrying back a brace of e’en more subversive acts. At a certain point I may have lied about owning an early Associates album but one had to try and hold one’s own somehow. The Blackburn boys were great company though and we continued to bump into them (mainly the non-hirsute Victor) throughout our brief sojourn. I salute them.
Less celebrated types frequented the area near our canvas abodes. The first night proved a disastrous non-sleeping marathon. I was awoken about midnight by a couple in the next tent playing music on a portable gramophone; the male partner launched into a long and involved anecdote about tyre pressures that had me silently weeping as I knew I’d struggle to slumber again. At half past three, a group of very drunken Mancunians arrived and started pitching tents near us, holding conversations that were as inane as they were loud. A middle-aged fellow known mysteriously as Pesky was the worst offender; his booming and meandering rants about the housing crisis and other issues had my blood boiling. I’m very easy-going but Pesky and his chums had me seething; I didn’t kip for a minute after that.
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