Juneathon finished as it started with no running at all although I did get a half hour swim in at a very leisurely pace. It’s a form of exercise that works muscles runners don’t use much like shoulders and chest so that gave them a rude awakening while the legs laughed at their pain.
As weekends go it was sunny and relaxed and with Glastonbury and Wimbledon and Diamond League athletics on the box (plus two Lovefilms to wade through) it was tailor-made for couch-abuse.
I swear I’ll get to Glasto one day. Having been a devout festival-goer as a younger man (I’m actually in the 1976 Knebworth film of Lynyrd Skynyrd – look for the Texan flag waver in the middle) I look forward to returning like one of the oldies who emerged to watch Mick, Keith, Charlie and Ron disgrace themselves under the Pyramid tent this year. Mick at almost 70 was spriteley enough while Keith looked like an escapee from Stoke Mandeville; all John McEnroe headband and Gail Tilsley chin.
The Mumfords did it for me though. Who’d’ve thought an English folk band with a name like a removals firm and a sound straight out of a Westport Pub on a Friday night would rock 150,000 plus a couple of million TV viewers as efficiently as that. They carry an honesty that few other bands can, singing with smiles on their faces about things we all recognise; heads, hearts, the light and the dark.
Folk shouldn’t be this heavy but together they create a wall of sound that Radiohead would be proud of. And the fact that a guitar goes “kerrrang” and a banjo just goes “plink” did nothing to belittle their status.