Situation unchanged. Still hanging on in here, waiting for something to happen. (Wait — was that a heart-grazing lobe-grinder of a new single from Mick, Keiff, and Little Helpers? Nope. Oh well . . . )

Here are the facts:

First, the Knebworth Bucolic Frolic — imminent in last month’s slo motion fandango — turned out to be the summer fest of the year in Limeyland. Eighty thousand heads were counted (by a qualified Very Fast Head-Counter) lolling on the upper-ends of necks in turn rooted in torsoes jammed chin-tobuttock on the lawn which presumably runs down from the doors of castellated Knebworth House to where the twentyfoot tall stage then rose in scaffolded splendour against the blue skies of high noon . . .

What I’m trying to say is that everybody got sun-stroke and passed out during the Doobie Brothers’ set. They soaked ’em at Buxton, froze ’em at Olympia, and scorched out their remaining brain cells in an English country park — but, lo, it is said that it was Worth It.