Matthew Crosby’s rutting of my leg now seems such a vague memory that there seems little to write about. The Pappy’s did a naked sketch , then Matthew stripped and ran to the stage and embraced my leg like an elderly, short sighted and, fortunately, unaroused whippet. He then rutted it with a drunken energy that, even after a hot wash and spin cycle, seems to have left a vague penile impression on my jeans like a lewd turin shroud (this might just be part of the imagination like an MR James tale). I saw few bands, but the bands I saw were chosen carefully enough to ensure no disappointment – Jeffrey Lewis, The Vaselines, Magazine and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. From Tuesday onwards, rumours of swine flu being smeared all over the Latitude turf had people falling to their knees and canceling gigs. By Wednesday, I felt pretty rotten, but I think this was more to do with two nights without sleep and the smell of pear cider over 96 hours. The Benjamin Franklin House preview on Wednesday was really just a man with lots to say with a bad memory who couldn’t find the things he wanted to show getting newsprint on his fingers – some nice feedback, but very confused. I then talked at a writer from Camden Voyeur for a couple of hours. This was meant to be a longer blog, but I have had a six hour break to do a gig and now feel all weary from my days under canvas (especially as I put my tent on far too sleep a slope and kept waking up as I slid towards the zip). My new material tonight was hastily written on the train, it was a flurry of cross things about The Guardian. Then I bought The Guardian at Euston and found a dig about me for doing stuff on the Daily Mail. This was excellent, The Guardian will be so happy as my new show is far more about how awful the centre right, lifestyle obsessed, New Labour licking Guardian is bullshit (you know, that left wing newspaper that began an interview with Gordon Brown talking about how his skin was “peachy and fresh”). Back in time, on the way to a lovely gig at The Tobacco Factory, we stopped off at the Leigh Delamere service station. For some reason, at the Costa Coffee, I started doing an impression of David Baddiel watching porn with Frank Skinner. Two bites of a muffin later, “oh hello David, how are you?” He was off to Cornwall. While taking to Baddiel, Edwyn Collins and his wife Grace walked in (I had chatted to them at Latitude). Leigh Delamere is like a Soho media club but with fewer twats and a WH Smith.