Make Hay while the rain pours

Or, What I did with my weekend by Dury Loveridge, aged 28 and 1 month.

The sun certainly wasn’t shining when we arrived for our big gig at the Hay Literary Festival (rebranded ‘The Guardian Hay Festival” since our last appearence 2 years ago). We were the musical entertainment for SkyArts’ big party, with sets alternating with those by English National Ballet. The parking attendants’ dinner suits and evening attire seemed strangely at odds with their wellies, and on our arrival an organiser tried to allay our fears by reassuring us they had a tractor on stand-by in case our cars were bogged-down in the car-park.

Glastonbury goes Islington, this was a party in a tent for some of the biggest names around. Gordon Brown was on the bill at the festival that weekend, and former primeministers joined comedians and writers from around the globe at wading through the mud to get to the free booze, music and djs.

I’d love to say I mingled and chatted with ease with all the stars, but there was work to be done. Plus, you know, being authors they’re not all that easy to recognise. Rory McGrath, doing daily diaries for SkyArts was there, as was Mariella Frostrup. There was some debate over a young-looking Atrhur Smith, but no such problems recognising Major Dick Strawbridge fresh from his talk on going carbon neutral. There was a possible AA Gill sighting, Iain Banks, Sean Locke and a few others besides, but our minds were firmly on the job in hand – playing Abba hits whilst posing for the papparazzi.

It can be glam to be a musician at times…

[Update: Just to prove it’s real, a ‘punter’s’ perspective on the whole thing…]