Bergenfest Day One

“I’m really confused. Are you actually Matt from McFly?”

Such is the greeting I, Matt from THE Fly, received exactly three hours after being introduced to Beth Jeans Houghton’s band at Gatwick Airport.

The poor lad had obviously been stewing for some time over why he was being flown to northernmost Europe with a tubby member of a shit boyband, and even the world’s bumpiest landing didn’t manage to take his mind off the thought of me singing ‘All About You’ while fingering one of The Saturdays.

Now, I’m not suggesting McFly wouldn’t be welcome here, but let’s just say BergenFest is a music festival that strives for a little more… integrity. Although it has to be said that most of the female population of Norway could give The Saturday’s a run for their money in the modeling stakes.

So, I’m now in Norway’s second city along with the aforementioned Beth Jeans Houghton, who nearly tipped the plane’s weight into ‘I’m not getting off the bloody ground’ territory with the sheer volume of cameras she’s brought with her. I counted five. Including a natty yellow number that looks like it was bought from Fisher Price. I think she might be a spy.

Also here are Stornoway, who called ten minutes before check-in closed to say ‘we’re coming off the M25 now. Going to take a shortcut on the back roads,’ before arriving twenty minutes late for check in, sweating like a darts player in a sauna and clutching their trumpets as they sprinted towards the plane.

I’d been told beforehand about Bergen’s glorious landscapes – the Fjords, mountains and quaint Norweigan huts; the cobbled streets and views out towards the vast open seas; the picturesque olde-town high street and cascading fountains.

So when we arrived in fog so dense I thought I’d contracted glaucoma on the flight here, I did what any self-respecting writer would do: I got a pint and went to see Purified In Blood tear The Garage apart. (It’s a venue. They weren’t running amok in the local Esso)

It’s always a good sign when the cloud of sweat hits you on the way down the stairs, long before the noise has reached your lugholes – and that was certainly the case tonight before PIB’s onslaught of bare-chested, tattoo-covered industrial metal, which is as good a way as any to begin a festival.

Tomorrow, we head up a mountain for lunch and to enjoy panoramic views of the fog. Now, I’m getting giddily excited by the fact I’ve got a heated floor in my hotel toilet, even though the warmth keeps making me panic a little bit that I’ve weed on my feet.

A heated bloody floor! Even McFly don’t get one of those.