We Love You Dizzee

It would not be an under- statement to say that Dizzee Rascal got the loudest roar at Creamfield 2009. The prospect of meeting Dizzee in the flesh was all too much for some of us, even the super-cool had no finger nails left by the end of the night. Anna, CALM camerawomen (pictured right), sums but the general hysteria backstage. Mr. Rascal was fashionable late but when finally reunited with the CALM crew he was more than obliging. He loves us. We love him. Pictorial evidence to follow. Watch this
SPACE .

The Cat that Got the Cream

James Barton, Creamfields Founder, speaks about CALM and Creamfields 2009.

Sasha - We Got Audio.

Click here.

Calv-Out.

Buggar. Calvin Harris jumped in his big bus and went home. Too Rainy. I bite my thumb at you, Harris.

We don't care anyway. We're holding out for the sun... and Basement Jaxx, Dizzee Rascal, 2manydjs and the sun.

And the Winner is...

At this half way mark we polled all the Creamfield crews camping out in the CALM tent. The question, which artist gave the best interview?

Laidback Luke Rocked Up Late and Sat Back Down

Juice FM reporter: "You've traveled around the world, how do English festivals compare to the rest?"

LL: "Yeah, wow... people really get wasted here"

Yes. Yes we do. Damn. Laidback just held up the international mirror of truth. Do we like what we see?

For more worldly insights … double-click.

Creamfields, Day 2: Laidback Luke

Hmmm. Anyone seen Laidback Luke? No one can find the No. 46 (out of DJ mag's top 100 DJs). He's probably being all laid back somewhere. So while we wait, may I introduce Anstey, CALM team Ambassador and presenter.

Backstage At Creamfields Infinitely More Successful Than Fold Down Beds at Holiday Inn.

Last night. Final wrap. 1am. CALM production team head for Speke Holiday Inn for some after the show room trashing. We were in luck. Got to our room. And it was trashed.

Pictured above: Holiday Inn management trying to kick my bed into shape. The thing wouldn't fold out. It's rails were all crossed and that, man.

David Guetta - A Daily Star Sandwich

David’s just left the polyester building. And like a Cheshire cat, all that remains is his smile. It’s all about David – in-tent debates have reached fever pitch: Is he Swedish or is he French? Swedish thinks camera person. French says photographer. And while spoil the fun with quick Wiki search, think I.

Multitasking like an octopus in an octopi brothel (oh, it’s too fecking late* for good multitasking analogies) - Guetta (pictured here with two Daily Star “journalists” – examine their Stella fueled velociraptor style interrogation approach. Not a single note pad to speak of) smiled while giving good interview – run VT here.

*Wifi left with David, hence the delay in uploading.

Filthy Dukes. Potty Mouths.

I have never seen such a mismatched bunch – just look at their differing choice in footwear. The Duke in the Hush Puppies ate one of my sweets and asked if they were clean before popping it into his mouth!

The only band today that I would like to get fucked up with.

Bad guy rating: 0/10 (funny blokes)
Differing taste in footwear: 10/10
Chances of Mr. Rabbit getting fucked up with Filthy Dukes now BBC 1 are playing their tracks: Ice cube’s change in hell!

Click here to see their filthy little faces.

Friendly Fires Are, Well, Friendly.

Ed: So, err, what is CALM anyway?
Jack: Yeah, is it like a Hitler youth charity or something?
CALM's Anstey: Er, no. No it's not.

PLAYe.

He Had a Dream: Day 1

As Barack Obama kicks his naff job title suffix into touch and simultaneously grabs the Shake n' Vac to rid the White House of the Bush stench that's thoroughly ingrained in the parquet flooring, the rest of us wonder about the 'ifs'.

If, like his predecessors, he'll solicit headlines around the world for all the wrong reasons. If, aside from the much talked about melanin, the legacy of a Black man in a White House will leave us, the lovers of the free world, with anything noticeably different. If, he'll take the opportunity to pad around his new palatial surrounds in the buff, straddling the opulent upholstery and haranguing the portraits of his infamous predecessors before the wife and kids descend...

Read more: Black man. White man. Grey area.
(An altogether more thought out piece)

"May the Flees of One Thousand Camels Infest Your Armpits"

When 2,319 good wholesome Blighty folk were asked, “Have you used any of the following words in the past week?”, the gates of Pottymouthdom flung open...

Results, top five most used British profanities:

1. Shit (90%)
2. Fuck (88%)
3. Bastard (86%)
4. Twat (83%)
5. Bollocks (81%)

The survey by Australian company, Start Ya Bastard, found that nine tenths of Brits are unfazed by swearing and the average Brit swears 14 times a day, according to the research.

78% of people admitted to swearing regularly for no reason [Ed. notes: that’s just fucking mindless] whilst most participants, 98%, admitted to having swore whilst angry at some point in the past. [Ed. notes: 2% of those polled are lying twats].

Alright, alright. It’s not big and it ain’t clever to eff and blind. Any cretin can do that, frankly. But cursing is like licking a nine-volt battery – you know it’s wrong but it sure feels good! And that’s because when you co-habit a tiny little planet with 6.7 billion other wankers you need some form of instant release.

Pent up frustration is the mother of invention, and where fiddlesticks fears to tread, so emerge my favourite expletives: tit-wank, knob-cheese, jiz-stain, dickweed or any phrase calling into question inappropriate relations with your mother. In fact a well executed, “MORON” does wonders for my mental health.

About once a month there is a need to summon from pit of your very existence, a good old fashioned: “Cuuuuuuuuuuuuunt”, with the emphasis on the invisible ‘k’ but for me, the ultimate in put downs are verbose and intellectual - may I close with a Blackadder classic:

“You see, the ancient Greeks, Sir, wrote in legend of a terrible container in which all the evils of the world were trapped. How prophetic they were. All they got wrong was the name. They called it "Pandora's Box," when, of course, they meant "Baldrick's Trousers."

Oh Yes! Yes! YesYes...

YES! Female Orgasm. Like a German joke, it's no laughing matter. Women have two categories. There is the clitoral orgasm, which is pretty much like shooting fish in a barrel - provided you locate the queen's bean, we have lift off. And then there is the penetrative, train-in-tunnel, variety of orgasmic pleasure - this is the real splitter.

A bunch of Italian scientists have been up to their elbows in G spot research and have proven that virginal orgasm can divide the female population down the middle - like Marmite - she'll either have it or she won't. And there is nothing those unlucky have-nots can do about it! Feeling cheated, anyone? Have the conversation. Here's one I prepared earlier:

“Babe, I know your back has never arched involuntarily during the dizzy heights of our sexual crescendo and you've never said it, but I know deep deep down you hold my performance between the sheets entirely culpable. I want you to consider this valuable piece of research from the Casanova school of science: You see, there is a good chance the lining between your front bum and your pee hole is simply not thick enough. Essentially, you lack a G spot. Disappointing I know. Cup of tea?”

Definitely one advantage to Facebook

Just as I was beginning to think that being Superpoked by my school bully was starting to get old I find a reason not to jump Facebook ship. My mate's latest squeeze happens to a) be quite a good dancer, like get on TV good, and b) have her camera phone handy backstage at the X Factor after show party. I nabbed this picture of the gorgeous Cheryl Cole. Look how she laughs in the face of airbrushing.

P.S. Notice how winner, Alexandra Burke, slips from hopeful to diva - pinning a sign up on her dressing room door the minute the recording contract is in the bag