Skol, iechyd da, sante, salud!

The campsite, pre-demolition job. Not pictured: tropical paradise barely 200 yards away.

"Down with protests!" - Chris and Emil fighting the good fight.

"Down with this sort of thing!" - my 15 minutes of infamy makes the festival newspaper. In a somewhat Orwellian turn of events, no copy of said paper managed to survive.

...And here I am holding up the world for Atlas as he ties his shoelace. The extra added weight of fame on my shoulders almost left me flattened and accordion-shaped, like Wile E Coyote used to be after he was crushed by an anvil or somesuch.

"Hello, old bean!" - here's Fisherman Tony, slinging worms about in the hope of catching some kind of oversized comedy trout, with which he intends to slap unsuspecting Norweigans accross the face and into the lake. Not pictured: a solitary chicken nugget dipped in a surprisingly delicious cucumber paste.

Me, clearly facing the wrong way.

People: like ants, only bigger.

Some rappers - what happens next?

More football fans. Check out the white-shirted Jew and his Nazi-saluting mate, three heads in from the left. It takes all sorts.