People, the following is a lesson that all should note. Never forget to do your research, and just turn up at a festival at mid-day expecting it to actually be in full swing. Oh no, that’d just be too crazy. Because, and you might not know this, some festivals start at 6pm, despite advertising the door opening time as 12pm on the ticket. Well, okay, only Guildford infact. Arse. A kind of giant one at that.

So things were not looking good. But all was not lost. Oh no. Because despite the fact that there were no bands on till six, there was still the comedy tent. And so, after almost two hours of waiting around, the festival day eventually began. 
 
13:50 – 15:30
Finding the comedy tent turns out to be easy, mainly because there’s only about a hundred (two hundred at best) other festival goers who have made the same mistake as us. And also because it’s all too bright orange marquee next to the beer tent. Unsurprisingly for a festival that looks like it’s been staged as cheaply as possible, it can only fit about thirty or so people in it. But what else is there to do? So we settle down and indulge in an afternoon of comedy.

Anvil Springstein comperes the first half, a scouser from Newcastle Upon Tyne who’s fairly amusing, but nothing special. What amuses is that he’s openly surprised at the poorness of venue, the lack of crowds and the fact that it’s so early on in the day and nothing else is going on at all. This quickly becomes a comedy theme of the whole afternoon as we’re treated to, in no particular order, Harvey Oliver (shit), Alistair Barrie (witty, good), Stephen Grant (Brighton blonde, over excitable but fine) Ben Norris (only okay) and a couple of others whose names have already been forgotten.

Only Grant and Barrie get any real laughs, not relying on picking on the audience or piss poor Jeffrey Archer/Big Brother jokes to raise a reaction. But when the best moment is an impromptu rain storm that could possibly electrocute the comedian, you know you’re in trouble. Thus this hack turns to alcohol in an effort to improve things.

15:30 – 17:00
The comedy tent breaks for an hour and a half or so interval, and we head back to the car to a) avoid the rain, b) rediscover comfort, and c) actually listen to some music. It’s a pretty sad state of affairs when you have to do this at a festival. Thus even more alcohol is consumed in an effort to cope with the days events.

17:00 – 18:15
Micheal Legge hosts the new stand up talent quest which is okay, occasionally very funny, but equally often very poor. Legge gets the biggest laughs by getting children in the audience to swear. Yep. You get the picture.

18:15-18:50
Fuzz Light Year are just finishing their set when we arrive late, after being knocked in to an almost comatose state by the comedy tent. Which is no bad thing, as Fuzz Light Year seem to specialise in  squealy riot grrrl sort of stuff, with a vague electro sound, and nothing approaching depth. Still, on the upside, at least the rain has stopped, and the sun attempts shining from time to time. More people begin arriving, a mixture of society this jaded hack hasn’t seen before at a festival, and questionably never wants to see again. Yeah, there’s a fair sprinkling of Pulp fans and indie kids, but far too many families, pensioners, and posh types walking around swigging from a bottles of expensive wine and laughing at anyone who looks like they earn under 80K a year. Worrying.

18:50-19:30
Alabama 3 are the band that Leonard Cohen and Elvis would have formed if they’d ever met in a smoke filled blues bar. Most famous for The Soprano’s theme tune (which sounds surprisingly incomplete when they play), there’s (not a lot, but a bit) more to them than this. Too many of their songs all sound the same, but at least they play with vigour and belief, even to this damp Guildford crowd, and when they end on ‘Too sick to pray’ everyone is at least dancing. They’re probably not even as good as this review makes them sound, but when you’ve been waiting around all day for something to happen, anything sounds good.

20:00 – 21:00
Whoever decided that Tindersticks would be a great band to support Pulp should be banned from the music industry for life. It’s not that they’re not one of the greatest group of musicians around at the moment, or that they sound poor – infact they’re almost identical to how they sound on record, with lead singer Stuart Staples voice in magnificent form. It’s just that these pre-Radiohead doom rockers are just too relentlessly depressing to be a support band, especially one supporting the headlining act at a festival. If they’d been put on first, to gently lull the audiences frazzled mood, then it could have been perfect, but as it is, few pay any attention to them, wishing to jump up and down like crazy, not nod appreciatively. Fine. But out in the open air is clearly not the right place to see them.

21:30 – 23:00
Pulp save the day. No, more than that. They make the whole day worthwhile. Beginning with a slowed down, cinematic Common People which builds and builds in to the pop song we know and love, Jarvis immediately gets the crowd on his side. Indeed more than that, in to the palm of his hand. He seems far more relaxed than he has in years, and the new songs sound so much more upbeat and melodic than when I head them last year at Reading. Infact it feels like a different Pulp all together. Not that Jarvis and co. were bad or anything, they just seemed a little limp last year, but now they seem back to full strength, and there’s a passion back in their work sadly missing in This Is Hardcore.

A lot has been made of the new songs being nature based, but whilst the imagery is in place, thematically it’s all about feeling out of place, craving sex and forcing optimism, all the themes we know and love Pulp for. Bad Cover Version sounds particularly amazing, a seventies lounge hit with biting lyrics, whilst Birds and The Bees, Weeds and Sunrise cant help but make you smile. There’s nothing quite as anthemic as anything found on Different Class, but it’s all just as beautiful, if not more so, and, more importantly, just as strong.

Its not all new material though, as Feeling Called Love, Sorted For E’s and Whizz, The Fear, A Little Soul, This is Hardcore, Party Hard, are thrust out on to the appreciative audience. Ali G’s influence on the world is amusing re-affirmed during Help the Aged as the crowd shout ‘help the motherfucking aged’ after every chorus, and the only thing which is missing is any material from His N’ Hers. But, yeah, I know, that was seven years ago, and you have to move on eventually.

Its over all too quickly, especially considering how this had felt like one of the longest days of my life before they had arrived on stage, and the crowd scream dutifully for an encore. Pulp return apologetically, only able to do one more song due to harsh council time restraints, but leave us with a beautifully seedy Underwear, before thanking the audience and disappearing for good.

And the lights went up. The crowd drifted away. And it was all over. At the end of an odd, at times annoying, and surreal day, at the strangest festival you’ll hopefully ever go to, thanks to Pulp, everything turned out just fine in the end.

Alex Finch.