Everything’s behind at the moment. My time-keeping (although it was ever thus), my blog post-keeping and my brain. I can blame all three, I hope, on Glasto. The aftermath is still cooling off. I can’t work out, for example, why the words in my last post are tiny – perhaps it’s just my computer, but they seem to be stuck hovering somewhere round the font 7 mark and are really terrible to read.
I blame it on seeing Tanya Gold rolling around in a soupy brown moat of portaloo-flavoured bin puddle on day 4 of the Festival. Clean as a whistle, she approached, plopped down and rubbed away, dumpily slopping her ample behind in its stinky filth and trying her absolute hardest to do what pretty much no-one else did: get muddy. All in the name of accurate reportage.
Back to London and back to the wider world and that, this week, means the mournavision that is MJ in death. I have just cooked dinner watching the last chunk of the memorial. Surprisingly, I even managed to eat and keep my food down.
I tried to summon a little bit of emotion, just a teeny drop of teary reflection, but I couldn’t (perhaps my heart is also a bit behind, on Glasto time), no matter how hard I tried, I felt zilch. It’s hard to feel sad about someone who is so iconic, so god-like, so globally super-dooper-mega-famous and so seemingly untouchable that he never seemed like he was human to me, anyway. He was a car stereo speaker, a worn-out record, a brand new cassette tape, a full dancefloor, a sparkling dance move, a trilling warble, a funky bass, a hot, hot dancer, a first song, a last song, but never a real person. To me.
So, there you have it: from Tanya to Michael in one neat sweep of the emotionless spectrum. Next time I will have my full brain back, I promise. And fonts shall be legible.