So, after a 13-hour shift on Thursday, I went out for a quick drink — and was almost instantly called back into work to co-ordinate the BBC’s Michael Jackson coverage. This included, frighteningly, having to decide at what point the Beeb would declare the King Of Pop dead (11:52pm, if you’re interested – not until we’d received verification from three separate, reliable sources).
I also had to write an appreciatiion of his music at four in the morning. It may be the most pretentious, least lucid thing I’ve ever committed to print. And, thankfully, a sentence about a snare drum “cracking like the whip that Michael was, presumably, flagellating himself with” was removed by the sub-editors.
After that all-night extravaganza, I had to go to Wimbledon, where I promptly fell asleep during an otherwise thrilling Hass / Cilic five-set epic. And then I spent the weekend recovering on the sofa, to the soundtrack of the BBC’s Glastonbury coverage.
Highlights included:
There’s no point in going into the bad bits because (a) the whole point of Glastonbury is that it caters to thousands of different, diverging tastes, and (b)
something that works brilliantly live can come across completely flat on TV. I suspect Florence and the Machine’s set fell into this category.
But, my overall highlight was little Emiliana Torrini playing an acoustic set in the BBC encampment. I could watch this again, and again, and again, and again. And you should, too.