Ideally, The Streets should have come on straight after the scratch Perverts to keep the crowds energy up, but it didn’t happen. The screens went dark and the resident DJ’s began to churn out non-descript tunes. People’s chemically enhanced eyes started to roam. Sweat drenched guys lugged themselves away to pass out in the Sunday night drizzle. A sign went up – ‘I LOVE COWS AND SKINNER’ – and then Skinner’s Clipper logo flashed up on the screens – the crowd roared as the music dipped and then...nothing. A couple of minutes later, the DJ’s came back on.
I was starting to seriously feel the burn when, at last, the music spluttered and died and The Streets came tumbling on stage with a brandy-coke in one hand and a huge party horn in the other.
The finest thing about The Streets is that he’s just a guy who should be drawing dole or working a night shift at a factory, not whooping it up, seeing girls with SKINNER scrawled on their tits – and getting a small mountain of money to do it. He’s gotten out. Every now and then he’ll drink his brandy and blow his horn. The crowd go mental. You can tell he knows it too.
We get just about all of Original Pirate Material. The live band do the albums farting electronic beats and riffs justice as skinner and his mate Calvin bounce off each other, picking up where the other leaves off. Skinners voice is a muffled, drunken slur half off the time but that’s the charm. ‘Don’t Mug Yourself’ and ‘Has It Come To This?’ get monstrous roars when they finish, Skinner bounds around in a WILL FUCK FOR COKE T-shirt, bellowing ‘GGGGLLLLAAAAAAAASSSSSSTTTTTOOOOOONNNNNNNBBBBBUUUUUUURRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’ and blowing into his horn like a Viking.
Maybe a passer by who peers into the steaming depths of the Dance Tent to watch The Streets would think Skinner is just another brain dead wide-boy, banging on about getting hammered and smashing someone’s face in with the thick end of a snooker cue. It could be, but I don’t see it that way. All of the songs have an accompanying video, whether it's a single or not, full of images of grimy clubs, greasy spoons and horrific fry ups, playstation with mates, sitting on benches, smoking weed, drinking and fat guys in y-fronts smashing up cars with two by fours. Skinner glorifies none of it. It’s just what normal people do – battle to keep a grasp on the depressing reality of their lives.
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“Who came ‘ere on Friday, eh?” Skinner says, drinking his brandy and twirling his horn.
The crowd blow up.
“Yeah? So who came ‘ere on furrsday?”
The crowd blow up.
“Furrsday, its all about the people who came here on furrsday.”
I came on Wednesday, but don’t get a mention. The Streets launch into another song and it all seems to be over pretty quickly. The highlight for me was ‘Its Too Late’, a very pretty song that jars a little with the rest of the material but shows that he’s more than just a one trick pony.
Another toot on the horn and he’s done. Glastonbury is over, the Official fireworks go up next to the stone circle while I’m still in the dance tent, and I need the toilet. Entering the urinals is a dangerous business in the dark. Skinner was probably in my soaking shoes a few years ago. Now he’ll be sucking on a Lambert and Butler in the hospitality tent, marvelling at the way it’s all panned out.
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