Phuckwhitt Phestival - Second night

A much more successful night than the first. Smoky, Pilot, and Sailor were all excellent. What's more important, they attracted dozens of festival goers from all over this part of the world; some had come from as far afield as Ledbury and Ross-On-Wye. Although we are still someway short of breaking even, my brother Sir Leslie Spume was somewhat placated, and I spotted him singing along to Pilot's hit, 'January'. Mrs Evans, loyal as ever, made tea for everyone, and dear old Martin Orbach, owner of Shepherds Sheep Milk Ice Cream told me that if the rain held off, and if the crowd for the Sunday night was a hundred times bigger than tonights, he might just make a small profit. I feel sure that young people will be unable to resist the allure of tonights line up. Ginsberg's catamite has flown in from the West Coast (Aberaeron), so he is considerably cheered, and I feel somewhat safer from his wandering hands.
Glancing through this morning's 'Observer' over a much-needed kipper, I see that The Booker longlist has been published.William Hills have David Mitchell's 'Cloud Atlas' at three to one favourite, whilst you can get eights about it at Ladbrokes; a value bet by anybody's standards. I was on the phone first thing, and have had a pony on Mitchell. If he wins, I'll put the winnings towards the roof restoration fund, which will cheer Leslie up even further.
One more piece of good news; Sid's housekeeper phoned me to say that he is out of intensive care; that he is sitting up, and has asked for a bottle of Mackesons. It takes more than a savage beating from a bunch of Hell's Angels to keep Sir Sid down!