Catching Up, Part 1. Cornbury
On the whole, Cornbury had more good than bad. The organisers can't be blamed for persistent rain and unseasonably low temperatures, or the fact that Jeremy Clarkson and David Cameron keep turning up. We saw enough good music (clearly we wouldn't have bought tickets if we'd thought this would be otherwise), there were no massive queues for anything, and the sanitation was as hygienic as could be expected*. However, I had three bugbears (hmmm, this makes me sound like some weird version of Goldilocks).
1) Beer. I know that it must be tricky gauging the level of demand for real ale at an event, and it's not like lager, you can't just chuck the unused stuff back on a lorry and sell it somewhere else, so there is a potential loss. But when you've run out of draught beer by Saturday afternoon, and the bottled replacement by Sunday lunchtime, you've screwed up. Especially when you employ loads of nineteen year old barstaff who appear to think that wanting proper beer is a weird affectation.
Note to organisers: You've got a folk stage and Morris Men by the dozen, for crying out loud, how did you imagine Hobgoblin was going to be a hard sell?
ii) Changes of Scheduling. We timed our Saturday arrival to catch The Beat at 1 o'clock, and had actually checked on the website before leaving; so what we didn't want to hear as we entered the grounds at half past twelve, still a mile away from the stage, was the distant strains of Hands Off She's Mine. As it turned out we got there for the second half of their set, and an impromptu encore which lasted nearly as long as the main body - I think someone was trying to correct for the early start there - then bought a programme which had them down as being on stage at 12:30.
Note to organisers: So knowing the time had changed weeks ago, you amended the printed programme - available only after punters had got inside the arena - but not the website (available to absolutely everybody, including those who were checking on Saturday morning. WTF?
iii) Umbrellas. Not to mention chairs, picnic baskets, coolboxes and tents. Tents! Cornbury has a particular village fete-like atmosphere which can be charming if you're patronising the marquee where the local school sell tea and home-made cake. However, there is a downside to the innocent "we don't normally go to gigs" vibe, mainly the people who set up something resembling Everest base camp ten feet from the main stage, thus taking up the space of fourteen people for the two of them, and appear bemused by the crowds gathering menacingly in their vicinity. You have a choice, set up your picnic area at a reasonable distance, or be prepared to stand.
And if you've come prepared like we had, i.e. wearing waterproofs and walking boots, and with the expectation that "Yes it's an English summer, it might rain", there is nothing more infuriating than the people who have thought "Well why on earth would I need waterproof clothing, I have an enormous umbrella bearing the name of my stockbroker", and use it to obscure the view of anyone standing behind them.
Note to organisers: The bad weather brought idiots out of the woodwork. This year there seemed to be a lot of people who were taken aback by the rain because it meant they got wet, and who would have preferred to be allowed to drive their Land Rover up to the stage and watch through the windscreen. Of course, if they'd been told they were allowed to do that, they'd then have tried to bend the rules by bringing a caravan as well; and been offended to be told that was breaking the rules, even though obviously they needed that caravan to make a proper cup of tea, actually.
*I've just remembered that at one point I found myself standing next to a Morris Man (one of the sinister Sith ones) in the gents, and, as he finished his business with a good shake, thinking to myself "So that's why they call it going for a tinkle".
1) Beer. I know that it must be tricky gauging the level of demand for real ale at an event, and it's not like lager, you can't just chuck the unused stuff back on a lorry and sell it somewhere else, so there is a potential loss. But when you've run out of draught beer by Saturday afternoon, and the bottled replacement by Sunday lunchtime, you've screwed up. Especially when you employ loads of nineteen year old barstaff who appear to think that wanting proper beer is a weird affectation.
Note to organisers: You've got a folk stage and Morris Men by the dozen, for crying out loud, how did you imagine Hobgoblin was going to be a hard sell?
ii) Changes of Scheduling. We timed our Saturday arrival to catch The Beat at 1 o'clock, and had actually checked on the website before leaving; so what we didn't want to hear as we entered the grounds at half past twelve, still a mile away from the stage, was the distant strains of Hands Off She's Mine. As it turned out we got there for the second half of their set, and an impromptu encore which lasted nearly as long as the main body - I think someone was trying to correct for the early start there - then bought a programme which had them down as being on stage at 12:30.
Note to organisers: So knowing the time had changed weeks ago, you amended the printed programme - available only after punters had got inside the arena - but not the website (available to absolutely everybody, including those who were checking on Saturday morning. WTF?
iii) Umbrellas. Not to mention chairs, picnic baskets, coolboxes and tents. Tents! Cornbury has a particular village fete-like atmosphere which can be charming if you're patronising the marquee where the local school sell tea and home-made cake. However, there is a downside to the innocent "we don't normally go to gigs" vibe, mainly the people who set up something resembling Everest base camp ten feet from the main stage, thus taking up the space of fourteen people for the two of them, and appear bemused by the crowds gathering menacingly in their vicinity. You have a choice, set up your picnic area at a reasonable distance, or be prepared to stand.
And if you've come prepared like we had, i.e. wearing waterproofs and walking boots, and with the expectation that "Yes it's an English summer, it might rain", there is nothing more infuriating than the people who have thought "Well why on earth would I need waterproof clothing, I have an enormous umbrella bearing the name of my stockbroker", and use it to obscure the view of anyone standing behind them.
Note to organisers: The bad weather brought idiots out of the woodwork. This year there seemed to be a lot of people who were taken aback by the rain because it meant they got wet, and who would have preferred to be allowed to drive their Land Rover up to the stage and watch through the windscreen. Of course, if they'd been told they were allowed to do that, they'd then have tried to bend the rules by bringing a caravan as well; and been offended to be told that was breaking the rules, even though obviously they needed that caravan to make a proper cup of tea, actually.
*I've just remembered that at one point I found myself standing next to a Morris Man (one of the sinister Sith ones) in the gents, and, as he finished his business with a good shake, thinking to myself "So that's why they call it going for a tinkle".