Perry, Not His Mum,'s Gone To Iceland

My internal alarm kicked in at 6.15 am, shortly before Perry's infernal alarm went off at 6.20. I can't remember the last time I saw 6.15 on a Saturday morning, and I suspect I would have been coming at it from the other end. We got to Clapham Junction in ample time for his 7.00 am meeting, which isn't as clever as it sounds, as it is less than five minutes drive away. The ticket hall was full of hormonally charged thirteen year olds, and bewildered parents. It's funny how, even twenty-eight years after I left school, I can still spot a Geography teacher a mile off. I gave Perry the customary punch on the shoulder, that serves as the only public display of affection a teenager will tolerate, and went home, back to bed.

Four and a half hours later, while Perry is winging his way to Iceland, we are on the road to Kent. Off to the Hop Farm for the Mighty Boosh Music and Comedy festival. We parked the car in the obligatory trashed festival field, and found a spot to park our bottoms, not far in front of the music stage. We were surrounded by a remarkable panoply of Boosh freaks. There were fans dressed as favourites characters, the usual Noel Fielding groupies, and random fruitcakes. Everyone else seemed to be a fifteen year old Peaches Geldof lookalike. The air was full of bittersweet dope smoke. I would have to hold my breath for the entire day to be safe driving home.

Troy and Max decided to stay parked in front of the sound stage to see The Kills, while Xanthe and I went to the Velvet Onion Tent for the comedy. It was too packed to get in, so we stretched out in the glorious sunshine under the speakers. Xanthe asked me if the comedian was American, since the basis of the gag involved bears, and a shark painted pink to resemble a salmon, I thought he might be Canadian. I was right. We tittered at the concept that one only uses the living room as a last resort, when you can't justifiably use any other room in the house. But the set that had the premise that Jesus didn't contribute anything major to the world of carpentry, lacked something. Ah yes, jokes.

So we hauled our sorry grass-stained asses off the ground, and set off on a grand tour of the site. The drink and drugs seemed to be starting to take effect. Not on us, obviously. 'Don't look left, Mummy,' hissed Xanthe. There's a man with his thing out. And he's wearing a dress.' I pointed out that it was her who should be looking away, since I'd already seen hundreds. It was black and covered in sequins by the way. The dress, not the penis.

We found the boys again, and sat in the ever lengthening, late afternoon, shadows of the recycling bin. The other festival-goers got rowdier on constant trips to the cider tent, and Troy wondered whether they should be joining Bar-cotics Anonymous.

Gary Numan was brilliant, the first time I've seen him since I had a Geography teacher. He looked pretty fit for a forty-nine year old, and produced some rocked up versions of his old classics. Noel Fielding was side stage, dancing, and greeted Numan with a massive hug as he came off.

The kids in front of us, rocked and grooved, and man-wrestled with their shirts off. And if there's one message about drugs I would give to my children it's this - don't do them. They make you dance really, really badly.