Saturday blurs into Sunday...

Saturday blurs into Sunday, and we’re all beginning to feel like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now! (one of many grim classics Mogwai have kindly programmed onto Pontin’s TV to make us all feel a bit more post-rock around the chalet). The reason? News has come through that disgruntled Belle and Sebastian fans, angry that Tompaulin were left off the bill, have burned a man alive in protest, Wicker Man style.

Actually, the poor fella was accidentally set alight and only injured his hand, but rumours get distorted when there’s so much glowering going on. The B & S massive would nonetheless be proud to find that their lord and master Stuart Murdoch proved to be more than a fey waif on the football field, as he stood up against our own Paul McNamee‘s vicious attempts to rip his jangly indie legs off. He led the Slut Jockeys to a 3-2 victory over NME in the final, but we choose to ignore this. Instead let us concentrate on the massive 8-0 slaughtering of those playlist slaves from Radio 1, whom NME destroyed in the semi. Steve Lamacq let in so many goals we wondered whether his mind was actually on the game, or just anticipating the next Frigid Vinegar release.

After such a triumph, we were obviously robbed in the final. No question. Nonetheless, next year it’s gonna be hour-long runs on the beach every morning before each game, just in case Murdoch comes back…