The Guardian, G2
By Alex Kapranos
The twin-propeller plane looked as if it was made of Lego. It flew us from Gdansk to Edinburgh this morning, our equipment strapped to the floor with rope webbing between us and the pilot. In-flight catering was watery, cold, scrambled eggs and cold bacon. The fat had congealed into hard white tears on the edge of the plastic tray. So, I'm hungry as we drive up the muddy track that leads to the artists' enclosure at T in the Park under evil, July winter clouds. Our tour bus, 15 tonnes of tinted excess, passes the security checkpoint where I stood on a parched summer's day three years ago, holding my guitar in its protective bin bag, as the security guard, after checking his list of bands, said, "Sorry son, I don't think you're playing - you shouldn't be in this area."