Summercase Festival- Stage Times

Well, seeing as we've had the Thoughts of the Third posted here already... this tome has been sitting in JG's inbox ready for his gayspace blog but I may as well slap it up here first anyways.

The names have NOT been changed to protect the innocent.

LOS VIKINGOS DE GIRA Part III

The third time in as many years and we're back in Barca for a Festival. Only, this time, there's nish New Order so not sure how we'll cope at Summercase?

Festivities start in Luton Airport, late Thursday. Easyjet contrive spectacularly to try and make me and Puddles do a JG and miss our flight. Leggy's been in the queue an hour. He's 6ft in front of us. We each move a further 6ft in the next hour before we're then 'fast-tracked' to a 'quicker' queue just as our flight is about to close. This queue is even longer! We make flight by the skin of our teeth. Which is then delayed, natch.

Gordi (Spanish spelling, honest) is delayed too, from Gatwick. We run into him at the baggage carousel in Barca. The four of us rendezvous with Nickos and Reg in the top-floor bar of the Expo Hotel an hour later. For argument's sake, let's call us the Southern Order. The other half of our group, the Northern Order, have been on the sauce in the Ramblas for the past 12hrs celebrating J’s birthday.

We drink in the hotel bar ‘til they threaten to lock us in on the roof (1.30am), then wander around Sants Station for another half-hour hoping to find a late-night drink. There's nothing doing in this part of town, so we too head off to the Ramblas. Er, just in time for everything to close there. Prostitutes come at us from all angles. Reg escapes their clutches by the skin of his teeth. We decamp to an Oirish boozer which has just called last orders. And get stung 40euros for just five drinks. Various phonecalls to the Northern Order but ATR doesn't know where they are (Oirish bar though, natch) and admits they are all 'leathered' (old skool word for 'cnuted'). Retreat to the location of last year's pre-gig shenanigans - Plaça Reial – and have a mosey. Everything is now completely shut. And then even more prostitutes come at us from all angles. This time, we make polite conversation. We buy cans off dodgy street vendors. Reg wanders off with some Indian lad on a bicycle to do more shopping. Me and Nickos debate Bomb the Bass tracks. And five minutes later we all wonder if we should perhaps, maybe, have followed Reg just in case he’s getting a shoeing in a back alley. Leggy goes to his rescue. Strolls perhaps twenty metres, can't see Reg, then strolls back. It's not like we didn't make an effort. Reg eventually returns with all limbs, and teeth, intact. Me and Nickos agree that our favourite BTB track is Bug Powder Dust.

We all head back to the hotel, go wake Welshcake up. He’s asleep on his hotel floor, lights on, mobile in hand. Some random woman phones him (it's 3am in the morning in England) and Welshcake hands the phone to Gordi. Gordi has phone-sex with her. Welshcake gets his cock out (it won’t be the only time this weekend). We eventually call a halt to proceedings at 5am after the second time security knock to tell us to shut the fcuk up. We’re all singing in unison to Bug Powder Dust by this time.

Miraculously, some of us make breakfast, where we finally get to see the Northern Order: ATR, J & C and Janete (Uncle Li has already struggled back to bed). We decide to do 'tourist stuff' and head off to have our pics taken with Gaudi's Gecko and enjoy some rays.

Back at the hotel, Nobby is now in town, as is Vincenzo. Li is wearing a Croatia replica shirt. And has a big price label on his shorts. Assume it's some new fashion-fad with Da Yoof, until Cath from the Third Battalion (boo hiss) points it out and Li hurriedly removes said tag. Leggy is last out of bed. No surprises there. The Northern and Southern Orders all dine together. Vincenzo wants to eat tapas and does NOT want Italian. We all go for an Italian. The Southern Order sit on one table, Northern Order on the other. A North / South divide. Gordi turns up late and has to sit in no man's land. The chef refuses to serve him.

The Northern Order head off to the festival early doors to blag tickets. The Southern Order grab cabs hours later, barely five mins before the first band are on. We run into the Leeds Contingent outside the venue. Matt's in LUFC casual attire. No surprises there. Through security, it’s the first time I've seen the Parc del Fórum in daylight. Usually bowl up as New Order appear, and just plough through the crowds. Knew it was by the sea, but it's nice to finally witness the Med behind the stage. An amazing location, beats Glastonbury and its mud hands down.

Editors are first band up. Edith Bowman is in the wings watching. She dances better than her fella ever could. Thank fcuk they stick a piano in front of him to keep his hands in check halfway through the set. Nobby's with us one minute lingering at the side. Next thing he's centre-crowd jumping up and down like a good 'un. When you're 6ft7 you really don't need to jump so high to get noticed! But he does. We slope off to catch Lily Allen in the arena. Lily Allen makes you proud to be Engerlish. She swears like a trooper, slates George Bush, keeps telling everyone she's pissed, and belts out some very witty singalonga numbers with an enchanting Regga/Ska backbeat. She also sings a song about men with 'small dicks' which makes Welshcake very happy. She does however, butcher Heart of Glass. Vincenzo does a dance with a fan like that lad used to in 808 State. Er, a pink fan. We ask why it’s pink? Vincenzo says he got it from lastminute.com. Yeah, but, really, why a fan, we ask? Vincenzo just returns a blank expression. We don’t press him further. Unknowingly it's the last we see of Welshcake as Lily Allen’s set closes.

We’re sauntering around the site when someone wonders if anyone else has Fradders’ moby number? Two seconds later we literally stumble over Fradders (and Pam) reclined on the grass. Next big act up are Flaming Lips. We watch a bloke roll across the audience in a ball, and see the arena fill up with green balloons. Decide to go get food instead. Only thing worse than queuing for food (okay, so we didn't - Leggy did and we lobbed monies in his direction) for a whole HOUR is that we were 'treated' to the entire Flaming Lips set too. That's an hour of our lives we'll want to forget.

Arcade Fire come and go. They don't play Age of Consent but one song boasts a TBTHOG bassline. As Vincenzo keeps pointing out. Perhaps ten times during said song. Whilst brandishing his pink fan again. Nobby falls asleep on the grass. And snores.

Resolve to give Bloc Party three songs max. Leave after just two. They come onto Freddie Mercury's Barcelona. Ooh, how ironic! And not just a snippet of it, the full fcuking track. Decide that watching LCD Soundsystem soundcheck is infinitely better. And even funnier when they leave the stage, turn the lights off/on and then all just wander out again. It's hot in there; the drummer does the entire set in just his underpants. Not usually a problem, but their drummer sits right up-front! Those of us who don't faint (due to the heat, not due to the drummer’s underpants) will stumble out of the tent an hour later looking like we've been swimming. Maybe Vincenzo’s fan wasn’t such a bad idea after all? LCD encore with No Love Lost. Hurrah.

It's a choice between Scissor Sisters and 2 Many DJ's. Most of us decide to head home. And then the fun begins. Me and Puddles walk around for more than an hour trying to stop cabs. In all directions. Barca cab-drivers obviously have way too much monies; they don’t stop for anyone. Eventually realise the only way to get anywhere is via the 'special' buses (snigger). The ‘special’ bus hits every red light and gets to Plaça Catalunya in – woo! - 45mins. It's a relief to see Gordi, Nickos and Janete all sat on the side of the road at our final destination having exited an earlier bus. Now all we have to do is try and stop taxis in this end of town instead. Thankfully, the Ramblas is close by and taxi drivers are actually prepared to pick up fares. Home time: 0630

Wake Saturday to discover the Northern Order are congregating in reception at 1245. And then going to an Oirish Bar (surprise surprise). Read this somewhere past 3pm. The Southern Order reconvene on the top-floor bar around 4pm. Leggy is NOT the last one up. Shock horror. Seems Welshcake (who we'd not seen since Lily Allen and we’d presumed had left early) rolled home at midday. He doesn’t remember a thing. We piece together his evening from his camera. It's just him. And lots of girls. And his sunglasses looking ever more tilted in each shot. Last thing he remembers is trying to clamber into a police car. Even they told him to fcuk off.

The Northern Order leave the hotel early for Badly Drawn Boy. Li is wearing a France replica shirt. The Southern Order head over the Ramblas and eat nigh on one hundred plates of tapas. We get into double figures on each of the albóndigas and patatas bravas. I drop my phone without realising it. Leggy mugs the poor lad who picks it up.

Onto the festival site and the highlight of the weekend: we're just mooching around outside the venue when the legendary Carl Cox bowls out of nowhere and greets Welshcake like a long-lost son. It’s a jaw-dropping moment: we're impressed. Apparently they befriended one another during Welshcake's lost hours, last night. We stroll into the venue with Carl Cox and exchange pleasantries.

Nickos has been in a James hat all weekend. We catch their last two tracks. Two too many for my liking, but it keeps Nickos happy. We then go see DJ Shadow. That lad knows how to start a tune, but can't finish one. People get up to dance, but then sit down again all too soon as tracks which promise much then fail to deliver. DJ Shadow does have a few choice moments however, most notably his UNKLE offerings. Welshcake amuses himself by scaring the locals with Hooky bass poses.

Carl Cox pops up again on our way to see JAMC. And we exchange further pleasantries. Welshcake befriends some English lads who also want to meet Carl Cox so Welshcake gives Carl Cox a bell and heads off to find him. It's the last we’ll see of Welshcake for a long, long time. Leggy waits patiently at JAMC for Welshcake’s return and bumps into Fradders again. The JAMC have all but lost their bite these days, there’s just no rough edges anymore, so we go see Beth Ditto do her thang instead. She’s got plenty of rough edges. You can feel the heat coming off the tent from half a mile away and we skirt the outside as the Gossip close with Standing in the Way of Control. They closed with it, and had apparently opened with it too, cheeky minxes. OMD next. We're briefly reunited with ATR and Li before they head off 'down the front'. The tent is a third full for OMD, but Spaniards pile past us at all angles as the band open with Enola Gay. The older material is class but for the newer material (well, mid 80's onwards) McCluskey must've already had one eye on a few pretty Scouse birds singing his words instead cos the tracks are cheesy as fcuk. Nickos wanders off at some point and exchanges pleasantries with Carl Cox again. Somewhere during the night we drink the bar out of vodka. Later Leggy will drink the bar out of gin.

Back to the main stage it's the turn of Kaiser Chiefs. Gordi sings Status Quo lyrics over all their tracks. The lyrics fit perfectly. We bowl over to the amphitheatre once we've heard the song about a riot. I literally fall over the Northern Order on the way to the bar, all sat in a semi-circle on the floor in true Festival-stylee, awaiting the Chemicals. It's the first I've seen of most of them for over 24hrs. They're with the Third Battalion (boo hiss). The Southern Order mass by the mixing desk. Carl Cox pops up (yet) again and we exchange further pleasantries. The Chemicals do what the Chemicals do best. We get scary clowns and robots and splashes of Primal Scream and New Order. Same old sh*t, but they do change one song in the encore from the previous times we've recently seen them. Woo. We all know another band who do that! Sorry, another band who DID that.

Miraculously we actually run into Welshcake somewhere past 5am. We piece together his evening from his camera. It's just him. Er, and lots of blokes this time around. We all head off to catch Felix da Housecat who greets us with the original Blue Monday, then some mix of BLT followed by some quality dance tuneage. He then closes his set with Smells Like Teen Spirit. Not entirely sure about that one, but Da Yoof love it. It’s the very last track played at Summercase for the weekend.

And then the fun begins. We're all cocksure now knowing we just have to catch the ‘special’ bus back to Plaça Catalunya. Er, along with 3000 other people. So we wait in line. And wait. And some random woman phones Welshcake (it's 6am on a Sunday in England) and he hands the phone to Vincenzo. Vincenzo has phone-sex with her. But no ‘special’ buses arrive. So we go and chance the trams, which have a smaller queue (around 1000 people). But after half-an-hour we've had enough of that and decide to chance the nearest Metro.

We head straight for the only recognisable landmark - Barca's answer to the Gherkin (it's sh*t compared to London's). Vincenzo offers us advice on how we 'should' perhaps be getting home. Repeatedly. Whilst waving his pink fan around. Reg threatens to lamp him. Some random girl phones up Welshcake and he has phone-sex with her himself this time. We hit the gherkin after maybe an hour and collapse onto the metro at Glories. Home time: 8.30am. Li is already at the airport by now.

The Southern Order reconvene on the top-floor bar around 5pm. Most of the Northern Order are back in England by now. Welshcake turns up in headphones. And won't remove them for the next nine hours. Seeing a man shake his booty to the Best of Platipus is one thing. Gurning and throwing shapes to Doves or Thieves Like Us really deserves a slap though. Reg is getting a late-night flight back to Stansted with Vincenzo. He leaves for the airport a good 2hrs before Vincenzo, who has a stack of postcards to write first. Vincenzo then leaves for the airport without his postcards. He realises his mistake just as we're about to ticker-tape them off the top-floor bar.

Night draws in and we head out to the bottom of the Ramblas (Drassanes) and the Marina, then me and Gordi take the troops on a tour of the backstreets of Barcloneta to find the tapas we literally lived in two years ago before Primavera. Welshcake gets his cock out again for the locals. After me and Gordie have been regaling everyone with tales of Barca's best kept secret (the tapas, not Welshcake’s cock) we eventually hit our destination. It's now an absolute fcuking sh*t-tip. Everyone looks disgusted. Undeterred, I order ales all round and Welshcake makes friends with a dog then goes off for a dance in the street. Gordi has a wander and finds our real intended destination. It's actually next door. But it's shut. So close, and yet so far. We escape through the backstreets of Barcolenta without getting mugged. We eventually eat. Nickos orders half a hundred weight of patatas bravas and cheese for himself. And eats maybe one potato. The rest of us order veal. But don't touch it. Welshcake goes off for a dance in the street again.

We watch the Copa America final in a bar packed with Argentina supporters. There's only seven of us and it's last thing on a Sunday night / Monday morning and our drinking has slowed to a virtual stilt. We still outdrink the entire bar during the game though. Nobby's in natty yellow and green trainers. At half-time he points out they've actually got the word BRAZIL up the side. Nice touch. Only two people cheer the Brazil victory - two girls who've just wandered in off the street. They exit one second later. Thirty seconds past final whistle and the Engerlish - and Nobby - are the only ones left in the bar. Welshcake is out having a dance in the street again. We head for a kebab as some of our appetites are slowly returning. A neon sign at the bottom of the Ramblas tells us it's still 23 degrees. At 2am. We head for home with, of course, a good hour of hassle trying to grab a taxi first.

Some of us make breakfast. Welshcake doesn't. He's flying the same time as Gordi but heads off to the airport 2hrs ahead of him. Gordi will make his flight, somehow Welshcake won't. To this day, no one knows why.

The rest of us are all delayed on our respective flights home. Natch.

Tune in this time next year for Part IV.

Hasta luego, mon amigos, El Jarvo.