If I’ve been a bit quiet – and I have – it’s because I’m trying to earn some money. I don’t care too much for money, but money certainly ensures you don’t get your home repossessed, as John Lennon memorably sang. Since last weeks’ Mercury Prize shenanigans, I’ve been to the Isle Of Wight. The last time I went there was on a misconceived Valentine’s Day trip with my ex-wife; we found ourselves in Ventnor in the pissing rain on a Sunday, with about 30 minutes to get catch the last ferry back to civilisation from Ryde, about 10 miles away. We managed it, but it wasn’t very romantic, I can tell you that much. No such problems this weekend at Bestival; if anything, we had too much time on our hands. It still wasn’t very romantic, but then again that wasn’t the idea.

We stayed overnight in Ryde, and the next morning I went to a convenience store and was charged 79p for a can of Diet Coke. They probably saw me coming a mile off. “From London, are you, sir? That’ll be 79p, you gullible moron.” The journey home was notable for collecting stupid boat names, an idea which should really be extended into a book, or possibly a full-length feature film. After a while, they all seem funny; you get a few tiny vessels bobbing about – “are they, er, crabbing skimpers?”, asked Green – called stuff like “Invincible” and “Forte”, and then a large blue one comes along called “Yvonne”. Thigh slapping stuff, but I’m not sure why. “Have you ever known a girl called Yvonne,” I asked the assembled throng, typical of the kind of boredom-fuelled questions that tend to crop up during tedious journeys. “Yes,” replied Andy, Scritti Politti’s facilitator and all-round troubleshooter. “She was beautiful.” We all have our own ideas of beauty, and I found this – found written on the side of the ferry – particularly alluring:

But possibly not as alluring as Yvonne.

Now I have a cold, and I’m perfecting my own personal recipe for hot lemon drink. Lemons figure prominently in the ingredients list, you’ll be reassured to hear. Last night I snuffled my way to Dalston for Andy’s birthday, buying him an incorrect birthday present en route, but it’s OK, I kept the receipt. There are many reasons why you might not like your birthday to be on September 11th, but at least no-one forgets; the turnout was excellent, and spirits were high. Marvellous. On September 11th 2001, I was supposed to go for a drink with Larry. The drink was cancelled, and we’ve not spoken since. Just in case, I guess.