Right, so it's going to be a Virtual Glastonbury this year then, is it? Well there's posh. I know it's going to take a bit of effort and imagination to make this measure up but I reckon I've got this cracked. My tent is erected (snigger) in the garden, I've got a fire going and there's a small mountain of Special Brew stashed in the corner. I've dragged my laptop out here with me, attached it to an ultra long data cable and connected to playlouder.com. Now all I need to do is roll a fattie, crack open the first of these cans and I can then set to work being unreliable and incoherent for the rest of the weekend. To start things off I settle back to watch Coldplay's set from last year. I'm not quite getting the authenticity here, something needs to be done. I move the computer further away. Nope, I can still see the whites of Chris Martin's eyes. Further. That's better, the band are but a dot in the distance. Sound's gone a bit wibbly as well but maybe that's me. I sway from side to side and sing 'Yellow'. Badly. More beer. Orbital are on soon, can't miss the chance to catch another dose of their blistering 94 performance. Fumbling in my bag I whip out a pair of speccy-style head torches a la brothers Hartnoll, just in time to catch the eye of my wife at the window, who casts me a withering glance then moves away shaking her head sadly. Well, Ner on you then, you stuck up bint. At roughly 2am I make my way down to the bottom of the garden and noisily climb on top of the garage. Drawing in the biggest breath possible, my chest puffed right out, I scream at the top of my lungs: "Bollocks!" Putting my hand to my ear, I listen out intently. Nothing. Hmmm... Again: "Boollooocks!" Suddenly the bedroom light comes on next door and ninety three year old Tom is at the window in his jimjams wearing an expression of equal parts bewilderment and sleep deprivation. Gladys appears beside him and together they gape in my direction. "Erm..... Bollocks?", I call hopefully. This is going decidedly pear-shaped. Tom looks about to open the window and say something but Gladys, very worried by now, drags him away. Well they never liked me much anyway. On Saturday morning I get up, use the trench latrine I moved the clematis out of the way in favour of (my wife doesn't yet know this) and make a conscious decision not to wash today. I have more pressing things to worry about, for example there's the fact that some bastard has half-inched my stash of Special Brew. What the..... how? I give my wife my best 'hard stare' inna Paddington Bear stylee and she blushes appropriately. Well you've got to hand it to her. Grinning stupidly, I produce a bottle of Sang Thip, a mental Thai whiskey. At 80 proof it's no slouch. Although 'slouch' is exactly what you will be doing if you don't treat this little badboy with the respect it commands. Nyah, sod it. Removing the lid I fill my boots, whereupon fire promptly exits my body via my eye sockets . The rest of Saturday fades to a Blur. Highlights (so I'm told) included one of the David Gray sets from last year and Placebo in the mud, eurgh. Not to mention REM, including 'bloke in a skirt' Michael Red Stripe from Saturday night in 99 but more interestingly, an incident involving a Weber Kettle barbeque. Details are sketchy at the moment. More when it comes back to me. Sunday, now this is interesting…. I've got blisters on my feet where my boots have been rubbing. Ah yes, that must have been from when I walked where, exactly? Closing my eyes and imagining I was back in the sunshine (even though the skin is peeling from my scalp and my toenails are melting) I nurse my hangover with Toploader's set from last year and, erm, a beer. I'm going to have to take down my tent soon. This is great, I have no two mile walk to the car, no four hour queue to get out of the car park, no heavy bags with which to tear off my arms, no thieving bastards trying to nick your rucksacks while you're getting yourself organized, no getting stuck behind a reeeeally slow driver on the way home, no twelve loads of washing to wade through and no six baths until you're clean. Oh and after all that, no finding out that you've go no food in the house and that you've got to go out again. No, just a garage at the bottom of the garden that most of it can be thrown into and my washing hardly makes a dent in the daily pile. I might still need the six baths though. This is worthy of celebration, opening another beer I watch Pulp's set from 95, a good festival and similar weather conditions to this weekend, hmph… As I clean up in the evening I find a bag of green herbal matter and get all excited for a minute but alas it turns out to be catnip. Doh. Hang on, where did that come from? The last thing I do before I hit the hay is catch the Gorillaz set. Just when you thought things couldn't get any more surreal you end up with a virtual band playing a virtual set at a virtual festival. How very post modern. And at the end of it all I drift off to sleep in my king sized bed and dream my king sized dreams involving Kelis and that bird out of JJ72. Howzat? So all in all, an interesting concept. Obviously not an alternative to a real festival (dur, really) but allowed me to get completely mashed and upset my neighbours (not an activity I need much persuasion to embark on). Maybe not such a good idea to do this kind of thing at home as leaving the house on Monday morning to go to work I witness evidence of some kind of activity in the vicinity over the weekend and my neighbours are looking at me with expressions of thinly veiled disgust. I've probably done something really bad, but I don't mind because I did it for you. And nothing is worth doing more that when it's for the cause. Remember that. Oh I did see some good bands and relive a few memories too, that was nice. But mostly I got pissed. Well it was Glastonbury. What on earth were you thinking? Stalker