Its a festival. my big chance to listen to some good music, and, as my good friend Delilah so often points out, to meet a good man.

At 3 am on the third day, we're is the session bar, singing in long and quivering harmonies. I look around a little, and see the sweat patches under their armpits, the hairy legs, the matted beards, and i smell the reek of three day old funguis & urine on their filthy nailed fingers.

There's Folkie X - a bit of a lad, known as a good warbler and fast on his feet. I look at his bloodshot eyes, the hands which only just recently have been attached to some young woman's thigh, and the white beer beely, covered with thick black hair which emerges from under the ratty T-shirt. uurrrrggcchh.

and here's dear old Snorty. Once a rather fine looking bloke, his eyebrows now sweep towards the stars, while his mind is firmly in the gutter. Snorty emits a very dirty laugh as I walk past, sniggering to his mate.

sigh. really, Delilah - these folkie men are a rough lot.