I am not going out in that rain. Even if Showstopper - The Musical is on in the cabaret tent, even if Camille O'Sullivan was waiting for me in a tiny venue by the river, where she would go down on one knee and promise to be a guest on my radio show. I have no pairs of socks left. My boiler suit - as it turns out, my festival fashion statement was more stupid than it sounds - is muddy. I have seen The Waterboys today. I interviewed 1927. I gave poor Gary McNair a big hug. I am having some time in the press tent, drinking coffee and blathering with the lovely Anthea from the festival team.
There are plenty of chances for me to meditate on my old age at Latitude. Not least, all those nostalgia bands that I remember as snappy young things. Why, there was that time when OMD were in the charts. And the day Mike Scott went folk on Fisherman's Blues. And I'll never forget the day Os Mutantes discovered tropicalia...
Most of all, that little whinging voice that does not like the mud.
There are many many other critical questions... has cabaret hit a wall? There has been a lack of cabaret acts in the cabaret tent this year. Bryony Kimmings may cross a line from Live Art, but she isn't burlesque. Prudentia Hart is three hours of multi-platform fun (okay, music and drama for those not as painfully pretentious as I am), but it is not a variety bill. Only tonight, in an evening curated by Dusty Limits, do I see a real cabaret show.
Oh, sorry: there was Ducky last night. That had Scottee, another one of my fascinations.
But it still stands: can cabaret offer enough artists to fill a tent for three days? Latitude has a sensible policy of refusing to book the same acts year after year, so it doesn't mean that there are no good acts... it might mean there are not enough.
Hang on, the rain has stopped. If I run, I might catch Frisky and Mannish.
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