Celeb spotting at Golden Plains (aka don’t do drugs, kids)

Bruce on drugs ...................................... Bruce straight

Tim “Timmy” Rogers was coming towards the end of You Am I’s enjoyable (the latter part anyway) set, looking resplendently haggard in giant purple, sparkling bow tie; the eskies still contained enough beer to negate the need to return the 220 yards to the campsite (cheers to the early risers from Geelong for the spot); a couple were staring intently at Bruce.

Bruce himself, by this point lost in a fuggy mix of music and merriment, remained oblivious. Fran, however, did not. After a few minutes of staring, interspersed with the odd nudge and whisper of “It is. It is.”, she could no longer hold back.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you two OK? Can I help you at all?”

“You can, actually,” came the reply. “That is Jude Law, isn’t it?”

Poor Fran. She almost collapsed to the ground in fits of hysterics.

“Er, have you two been taking a lot of hard, mind-altering drugs?” she asked.

“Yes,” came the sheepish reply.

Still, it gave Bruce something to milk throughout Sunday, especially as the last person to name a lookalike for him had picked Rentaghost’s Timothy Claypole.

As for the rest of the festival, one can’t really complain about turning up at 12.30pm on the Saturday afternoon and discovering that space has been reserved right behind the Meredith Wheel within a two-minute stumble of the main amphitheatre.

Neither can one complain about the toilets themselves – incredible what a bit of sawdust can do and how pleasant it is to urinate while staring out over miles of rolling fields.

The Pink Flamingos, sofas (some on stilts), noodles with Malaysian sauce (until they ran out rather too early) and generosity of random strangers with goon bags on Sunday night (not that we were actually short of booze by any stretch of the imagination, but it seemed more fun to accept offers of wine from excitable people) were none too shabby either.

As for the music, Dan Deacon’s inspired dancefloor mayhem got the party started in fine style despite failing to get the entire site to join in with the running-in-circles bit, Brant Bjork was suitable stoner-sounding, the Black Seeds were pretty weak but allowed Bruce and Fran to launch into a remixed a cappella version of the advert for the soft drink Lilt, the part of Mogwai’s set where we weren’t at the tent was better than the part where we were (so much better in fact that we really should have left the tent earlier), while You Am I, as mentioned earlier, were great when rolling out the hits.

Saturday’s DJs seemed to suck, although by that stage motor functions were seriously impaired so judgement should perhaps be reserved. Come Sunday, Old Crow, JimWhite, Pivot and My Disco all entertained in their own ways early doors (as did the chap in the Flaming Lips-style giant bubble), The Drones were far superior to their Falls show (perhaps because they weren’t on at some stupid time of the day), while Gary Numan was really rather poor.

Quite who was responsible for what between his set finishing and 4.30am is a matter that Bruce is unable to resolve at this moment in time as the only thing he knows for sure is that, one by one, the people he was there with began heading back to bed as he waited for the arrival of DJ Mujava.

“I’m heading back to camp,” said the last of them at 4am.

“I’m staying here,” said Bruce. “These beats are only going to get harder.”

They did, so much so that by the time said South African broke off from his decks for a little stage side boogie, Bruce thought he was indoors at a club. Only when Mujava’s magic had finished and it was time to pick his way through the 6am detritus and head back to bed did he realise he was still at the festival.

PS Apologies if anyone woke up with ruptured groin muscles and / or a hernia on Monday morning. Next time Jude Law asks you to do a headstand on an esky, feel free to decline.

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