Unfortunately, I didn't take many photos at Meredith, and this is pretty much the best one I could muster. The others are of tents, people playing Scrabble and a blurry sunset.

The following is a tribute to the always entertaining ‘tell us something we don’t know’ compilation that appears in the Meredith booklet:

Jerry’s Vegi Burgers remain a godly deliverance to the guilt-laden carnivore. Counterbalanced, in a delightful culinary harmony, by the sipping of the gravy at the end of chips’n'gravy bucket.

Rule 1: People don’t enjoy performing tasks they are not good at.
Exception to Rule 1: Dancing.

Note to the young guy who felt it his right to squat and urinate within the confines of the Amphitheatre, in addition to suggesting to strangers that they should drink beer from his scummy Dunlop Volleys (”hey, have a shoeie! A shooooiee!!”): Not only were you blatantly breaching the Festival’s ‘No Dickheads’ policy, you have also become a convenient poster-child for the pro-sterilisation lobby.

Pharoahe Monch did a fine job as the Festival’s hip-hop act.  Even though I wasn’t overly interested in his rhymes, I fraudulently pretended I was, via the time-honoured medium of one pumping fist. The Saturday afternoon was officially started.

Jacket goes on, jacket goes off. Jacket goes on, jacket goes off. Jacket goes on, jacket goes off. Jacket goes on, jacket goes off. Jacket goes on, jacket goes off. Jacket goes on, jacket goes off. The weather, despite its indecisiveness, was wonderfully mild.

Patrick Wolf is one entertaining wanker.

Was Yoni from Why? aware that his microphone was on for the band’s entire soundcheck? Pity, it wasn’t an overly endearing start to what was a fine set of hip-hop infused indie rock. Highlight being the alphabetastic arm-wavin’ singalong to ‘The Vowels, Pt. 2′.

Dude, no one wants to read the Animal Collective essay you’re carrying around on a clipboard, particularly if, unlike you, they’re not tripping balls.

The giant slip’n’slide at the top of the hill would have been horrific if used in concert with sunburn. Fun to watch, though.

Kitty, Daisy and Lewis were very sweet and engaging, with their a capella introduction forming a sea of craning necks up the back of the Amphitheatre. Would love to see them in a smoky bar some time. Pity they always have to hang out with their parents, but.

Yacht Club DJs couldn’t decide what to play so they just mashed together soundbites of popular songs. I think their iPod was on the blink.

Guiltiest pleasure of the festival – joining in with the group cheer as the opening riff from ‘Money For Nothing’ introduced itself between bands. Closely followed by a foot on the esky/foldback air guitar solo during ‘Comfortably Numb’.

Meredith makes picking up cans FUN!

Tumbleweed are like that person you haven’t seen in ages and say, “Hey that was cool, we should catch up again soon,” and never do.

I’m gonna listen to Kid Sam every time I have a hangover from now on. Kieran’s melodies just wash so beautifully over everything else.

“What’s with these fucking long guy-ropes, did you start them in Balnarring?!” – what I feared was a tent invasion was actually just a guy tripping over my guy-ropes. They weren’t really that long.

Combo La Revelacion will play at your wedding.

Silence Wedge jokes are now at their apex.

Best second-hand story I heard from the wash-up – girl takes a sip of water before retiring to her tent, though (BUP BOW) it’s acid. She ends up having climbed the boundary fence and has made a hay nest, which she crafted using only her mouth. Upon her concerned friends finally finding her, she is speaking a different language and believes herself to be a farm animal. I have no reason to doubt this story.

If you really must don a gold lamé jumpsuit, you’ll also need underwear.

This is definitely, for real, the last time I’m driving. Blowing 0.00 on the way out means that I could have gone 0.o49 times harder on Saturday night.

Someone really must start a schadenfreude photoblog called hipsterstryingtoputuptents.com*.

Jarvis Cocker, you are awesome, even if the songs you write these days aren’t quite as awesome as the songs you used to write when I was a teenager, but that’s probably my issue.

The Sunday afternoon shower and nap upon the return home remains the best shower and nap of the year.

*credit for this idea goes to Cassie ‘you have to give me credit for that idea’ Bone.