Since returning from holiday near the sea, I have really wanted to try cooking mussels. Today I decided to indulge this mild fascination with crustaceans, and headed over to Morrisons (favourite supermarket of the pop group Take That, though I have never once seen any one of the members in there). The man at the fish counter told me how to prepare the mussels, giving me an unnerving crash-course on the extensive necessary shell testing you have to to avoid poisoning yourself. The amount of effort it took to prepare them was a revelation in itself. I had also been surprised how relatively cheap a big bag of mussels were as I’d always thought they were a bit of a delicacy. Although after my chat with the fishmonger, I would soon realise the real expense is more to do with the number of supplementary things you need to make a decent sauce. This expense would also be compounded when I got to the check-out queue. As I pulled out my wallet, I ended up dropping a coin. Typically, it hit my foot and rolled off, losing itself the jungle of other people’s queuing legs. And typically out of all the coins it could have possibly been, I had lost a pound – the second most valuable of the sterling coin family.
I had a few little glances, but to no avail. To have a more thorough exploration would have meant compromising my place in the queue, and rummaging around people’s feet, which seemed like an indignity not necessarily carrying much promise of success. Begrudgingly, I wrote the money off, paid for my goods and traipsed toward the exit. And as before I’d even left the building, the realisation hit me that I had forgotten to buy any fish stock, so I would have to take my carrier bag back to the car and start again. I don’t know why I always feel obliged to get rid of the goods I have already purchased before I can re-enter a shop. I just have a strange paranoia that I would be a suspected shoplifter if I didn’t, which would be of social embarrassment to me in a public retail space. Silly really, when you remember the purpose of being issued a receipt is solely for proof of purchase.
So I returned to the store and grabbed a box of fish stock, heading back to the checkout. I did not wish to join the same queue as before in case the checkout girl recognised me as the forgetful dimwit I was, so I joined the next one along behind a man waiting to pay for a pre-packaged sandwich. This turned out to be a shrewd move on two counts – firstly I had joined behind a man who was waiting to pay for a single pre-packaged sandwich so the queue instantly became shorter than it looked. But even more impressively, I could see my pound coin on the floor just a few meters ahead. As I slowly shuffled up the queue alongside the fish stock on the conveyer belt, I waited in anticipation to retrieve my gold nugget, praying that none of the other shoppers in front of me would spot it before I could get to it. Luckily, no-one did and when I reached the coin I surreptitiously pounced on it like a tiger. Although it wasn’t quite as discreet as I’d hoped - as I bent down, I made one of those involuntary groaning noises that sometimes occur when you get to a certain age and start stretching, standing or bending. This new development of vocal accompaniment to minor exertions was both a surprise and worry for me. If I am groaning like this at the mere age 31, lord knows what noises I’ll be making at 61. At this rate, it’ll sound like I’m doing a weird one man re-enactment of the fabled scene from “When Harry Met Sally”.
To add to my embarrassment, the checkout girl rung my fish stock through and gave me a disconcerting look, whilst asking “Is that everything?” The enquiry may appear rather innocent when read from a page, but had she given the same line of questioning to the single-item buying gentleman and his pre-packaged sandwich? Oh no – of course not. Buying a single item is fine if it is a pre-packed sandwich. But apparently there is something deeply odd about a man who just wants a box of fish stock. What on Earth was she thinking? Did she believe I was friends with the sandwich man, and we would step on to the car park together – him tucking in to the convenient bread-based snack he’s just purchased, and me standing alongside him, crumbling cubes of dehydrated fishy flavourings into my gob? What sort of sea-life obsessed weirdo did she think I was? Oh well. Who cares? At least I had retrieved my pound. This would sweeten the bitter pill of any unnatural-looking fish stock eccentricities that may have been levelled at me.
The mussels were ok, but if I am honest they failed to leave me sated. They had seemed like such a big bag when I bought them. But for starters, the fishmonger had scared the living hell out of me with his stern tutorial, and during my rigorous safety check on the shells I probably discarded many more mussels than I needed to, just through paranoid caution. And when I’d finally finished prevaricating and actually cooked the mussels, the little bits of Gieger-esque meat were actually a lot smaller than I’d anticipated. In fact they were so tiny compared to their vast shell cups, it rather reminded me of trying to find the clitoris. But enough of the sentimentality from bygone years. The point was that to appease my appetite I had to follow my main dish with sandwiches and a rather too healthy (or indeed unhealthy) portion of cheesecake. So when my friend contacted me to tell me he was going for a drink and a curry in the town I was keen to join, but certainly only the former seemed of any appeal. Which brings me to my next point. When someone invites you to catch a bus into town for a drink and a curry, surely it is safe to assume that the activities would occur in that order. Drink first, curry later. Surely that’s the English way isn’t it? Not my friends. They must be continental or something. I joined them in town just as they were heading to the curry house. I can’t emphasise enough – I wanted drink not food. Yet I didn’t feel comfortable going to a curry house just to order drink. Maybe my ideologies are all askew, but this is something that appears much weirder to me than standing in queue to buy fish-stock. And this is how I found myself standing all alone in a pub, self-consciously supping from my pint. Which I pretty much did until the last bus home. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but the barmaid I had been set up in an ill-conceived date with in this previous entry was working. And she kept walking past. What must I have looked like, standing in the middle of busy Saturday-night town-centre pub, drinking completely by myself? The best I can hope for is that I appeared so un-popular I am completely bereft of any friends who I can call and meet up with, even on a Saturday night. I’d seem weird, but at least I would pitiable. But what if she thinks I am only going there to watch her, like some discomforting lonely obsessive? This would no longer look pitiable. This would be a whole new level of weirdness.
Could have been worse I suppose. At least I didn’t drop any coins and start groaning when she walked past. Or have a powdery residue of fish stock smeared across my lips.
Mon 7th Sept 2009
I’ve started going to see films again at the cinema. Tonight I went to see my third film in three consecutive weeks. It was called “Home” and was about a family living next to an abandoned highway, which gets re-opened, resulting in disintegration as their deepening isolation slowly leads to madness. Last week’s film was “Moon”, in which about a man who works all alone on the moon and starts thinking he’s going mental. The week before that we watched the psychological horror “Antichrist”, about a man and woman ravaged by grief, who head to a cabin in a forest alone together in an attempt to come to terms with the loss of their child, and eventually end up going insane and debauched. In case you haven’t noticed, I only like films which feature single-word titles, bitter isolation and slow, tortured mental decline. They are my favourite type. In fact I will only watch films which feature all these three elements.
Antichrist has been the subject of some particular controversy and on the way in, the cinema’s steward warned each if us about its explicitly offensive content, despite the fact that there were already numerous warning signs around the box office. This actually unnerved me a little, because I have never seen such diligence of caution. And sure enough, as soon as the lights went down, we were subjected to an onslaught of cruelty as the screen lit up with imagery that can only be described as gratuitously offensive. Apparently U2 are advertising Blackberry phones now and we had to sit through at least 30 seconds of yet another of their songs which was the Rock equivalent of aural fresh air. It was little more than obscene. Haven’t those fuckers got enough money? Why use U2 to ruin our cinematic experiences? What do they have which qualifies them to ruin cinematic experiences nationwide anyway? Why not use, say, long-lived African-American doo wop vocal group, The Drifters? They’ve been banging on about Saturday Night at The Movies for fifty years now. I’ve never seen such a loyal allegiance to the movie industry. In fact they must really love films, because they also wrote, “Kissing in the Back Row of the Movies” which I’d argue could be seen as a kind of homage to the concept of a sequel. Ok so lyrically it was pretty much the same concept as “Saturday Night At The Movies” which made it a bit rubbish. There’s only so many times you can listen to songs about taking a girl out to the movies and giving her a kiss and a cuddle on the back row. Sure it would have been nice to hear a little a progression. But in their defence, it was different time and their conclusion to the trilogy, “Fingering through the Trailers” probably wouldn’t have gone down very well in the 50’s. For this reason it’s probably for the best the demo remained unreleased.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that The Drifters would be perfect for cinema advertising. It’s just that they’ve already been frequenting the movies for 50 years, so surely they seem more deserving to have such long-standing custom rewarded in some way. But if they have been cruelly overlooked, I suppose they have no-one to blame but themselves. Given a closer inspection of their lyrics, they freely admit, “Who cares what picture we see?” And whilst they are clearly helping keep the fledging cinema industry alive they obviously have no respect for the film as an art-form. In any case, to me it seems a bit reckless to have no regard for “what picture we see”. It would, for example, be very unwise to take their “baby” to go and see Antichrist. I couldn’t imagine scenes of explicit sexual imagery and harrowing sadistic genital mutilation being a particularly comfortable or appropriate context for “hugging with your baby on the last row of the balcony.” Even assuming this "baby" is of the required age of 18, surely the bit involving a clitoris and a rusty pair of scissors would kill the mood stone dead on any first date. It’s little wonder they never get further than a kiss and a cuddle.
That’s the problem with them Drifters. No forward planning.
Antichrist has been the subject of some particular controversy and on the way in, the cinema’s steward warned each if us about its explicitly offensive content, despite the fact that there were already numerous warning signs around the box office. This actually unnerved me a little, because I have never seen such diligence of caution. And sure enough, as soon as the lights went down, we were subjected to an onslaught of cruelty as the screen lit up with imagery that can only be described as gratuitously offensive. Apparently U2 are advertising Blackberry phones now and we had to sit through at least 30 seconds of yet another of their songs which was the Rock equivalent of aural fresh air. It was little more than obscene. Haven’t those fuckers got enough money? Why use U2 to ruin our cinematic experiences? What do they have which qualifies them to ruin cinematic experiences nationwide anyway? Why not use, say, long-lived African-American doo wop vocal group, The Drifters? They’ve been banging on about Saturday Night at The Movies for fifty years now. I’ve never seen such a loyal allegiance to the movie industry. In fact they must really love films, because they also wrote, “Kissing in the Back Row of the Movies” which I’d argue could be seen as a kind of homage to the concept of a sequel. Ok so lyrically it was pretty much the same concept as “Saturday Night At The Movies” which made it a bit rubbish. There’s only so many times you can listen to songs about taking a girl out to the movies and giving her a kiss and a cuddle on the back row. Sure it would have been nice to hear a little a progression. But in their defence, it was different time and their conclusion to the trilogy, “Fingering through the Trailers” probably wouldn’t have gone down very well in the 50’s. For this reason it’s probably for the best the demo remained unreleased.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that The Drifters would be perfect for cinema advertising. It’s just that they’ve already been frequenting the movies for 50 years, so surely they seem more deserving to have such long-standing custom rewarded in some way. But if they have been cruelly overlooked, I suppose they have no-one to blame but themselves. Given a closer inspection of their lyrics, they freely admit, “Who cares what picture we see?” And whilst they are clearly helping keep the fledging cinema industry alive they obviously have no respect for the film as an art-form. In any case, to me it seems a bit reckless to have no regard for “what picture we see”. It would, for example, be very unwise to take their “baby” to go and see Antichrist. I couldn’t imagine scenes of explicit sexual imagery and harrowing sadistic genital mutilation being a particularly comfortable or appropriate context for “hugging with your baby on the last row of the balcony.” Even assuming this "baby" is of the required age of 18, surely the bit involving a clitoris and a rusty pair of scissors would kill the mood stone dead on any first date. It’s little wonder they never get further than a kiss and a cuddle.
That’s the problem with them Drifters. No forward planning.
Sun 6th Sept 2009
I’ve just been trying to write this entry and nearly broke my computer! I was lying in bed with my laptop on my lap when along came a spider, which didn’t quite so much as sit down beside me, as much as abseil from the ceiling towards my face. I didn’t notice him until he was about 30 centimetres away and such close perspective made him look like almost monstrous. The sudden shock meant that impulsively, I quite literally dived off the bed, flinging my laptop along the floor with terrific force. How my computer actually survived the impact I am unsure, but it’s a pretty good job. I don’t think arachnid attacks are covered in the insurance policy. I’d have broken my computer for no conceivable gain whatsoever. At least if you’d got to see my floundering idiocy it might have been a slightly humorous spectacle for you, but slap-stick doesn’t really work in print. It would have been a complete waste.
I am not usually the sort of person who is usually fearful of creepy crawlies (although I make up for this with a more than adequate share of other fears and foibles), but this is actually the second time in recent weeks I have been made to feel uneasy by the insect world. A couple of Sundays ago, I went for a walk over a place called the Edge, near Much Wenlock. It is nice to be amongst nature, and this particular walk was also the inspiration for A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman. I find the literary history of the place quite ironic considering the name Much Wenlock makes no grammatical sense whatsoever (surely Very Wenlock, or Quite Wenlock would have been more correct). On the way home we stopped off for a lamb shank at a pub called The Boycott Arms. If I had been in the mood to be around nature then this would be a most ideal stop-off. As soon as our food arrived, so many insects appeared the place practically turned into a frigging conservatory. Perhaps the squashed wasp on the menu we saw before ordering should have been a bit of a giveaway. By this I mean a literal squashed wasp. “Squashed Wasp” wasn’t the actual name of one of the dishes, obviously; although if it were, the raw ingredients would certainly have been in plentiful supply. Honestly, it was like a sodding Wasp Factory or something. So much so, I even felt inclined to check my genitals on the way out, in case I’d fallen foul to some bizarre gender swap*. There was also this really weird thing I’ve never seen before or since which looked like a beetle, only it had bright red legs, a pair of wings, and more disconcertingly, something at the tail end that looked suspiciously like a sting. But the most disconcerting thing of all was the way it had no fear of humans whatsoever; it kept pacing towards me until I felt it necessary to actually switch to the other side of the table. In retrospect I guess this seems a little unchivalrous of me, since it now made an unnoticed bee-line to my eating companion instead, who eventually got pounced upon by the creature and was forced to flick it off in a bit of a sudden panic. And although no real harm was done by this apocalyptic-esque attack of insects, it really did taint the whole eating experience. Consequently, I shall not be visiting The Boycott Arms again. At least there was one place we visited with a correct name.
Footnote
* With that literary allusion to The Wasp Factory I may have spoiled the ending of a popular novel for the sake of a reasonably weak joke, but to be fair if you haven’t read it by now, I doubt that you ever will.
I am not usually the sort of person who is usually fearful of creepy crawlies (although I make up for this with a more than adequate share of other fears and foibles), but this is actually the second time in recent weeks I have been made to feel uneasy by the insect world. A couple of Sundays ago, I went for a walk over a place called the Edge, near Much Wenlock. It is nice to be amongst nature, and this particular walk was also the inspiration for A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman. I find the literary history of the place quite ironic considering the name Much Wenlock makes no grammatical sense whatsoever (surely Very Wenlock, or Quite Wenlock would have been more correct). On the way home we stopped off for a lamb shank at a pub called The Boycott Arms. If I had been in the mood to be around nature then this would be a most ideal stop-off. As soon as our food arrived, so many insects appeared the place practically turned into a frigging conservatory. Perhaps the squashed wasp on the menu we saw before ordering should have been a bit of a giveaway. By this I mean a literal squashed wasp. “Squashed Wasp” wasn’t the actual name of one of the dishes, obviously; although if it were, the raw ingredients would certainly have been in plentiful supply. Honestly, it was like a sodding Wasp Factory or something. So much so, I even felt inclined to check my genitals on the way out, in case I’d fallen foul to some bizarre gender swap*. There was also this really weird thing I’ve never seen before or since which looked like a beetle, only it had bright red legs, a pair of wings, and more disconcertingly, something at the tail end that looked suspiciously like a sting. But the most disconcerting thing of all was the way it had no fear of humans whatsoever; it kept pacing towards me until I felt it necessary to actually switch to the other side of the table. In retrospect I guess this seems a little unchivalrous of me, since it now made an unnoticed bee-line to my eating companion instead, who eventually got pounced upon by the creature and was forced to flick it off in a bit of a sudden panic. And although no real harm was done by this apocalyptic-esque attack of insects, it really did taint the whole eating experience. Consequently, I shall not be visiting The Boycott Arms again. At least there was one place we visited with a correct name.
Footnote
* With that literary allusion to The Wasp Factory I may have spoiled the ending of a popular novel for the sake of a reasonably weak joke, but to be fair if you haven’t read it by now, I doubt that you ever will.
Sat 5th Sept 2009
Saturday nights can be a strange affair when you are a single thirty-one year old. Especially when your contemporaries are generally preoccupied doing adult stuff in couples. This might make me sound lonely but I always have the option to find younger friends to have a hedonistic time on the town with. But personally I never feel much inclined for big nights out in nightclubs and the lark. At my age, the financial and physical strains are simply too much to bear. It seems whichever way I turn, the Saturday night always promises so much, but delivers so little. So sometimes I end up spending the weekend feeling like an old bit of driftwood washed up on the shore of a wasteland, with no-where to go and no-one to be with.
I remember once at work, I obliged a hall viewing for an almost painfully pretty woman, the type so angelic that she almost makes one weep into your lonely pillow at night. Sadly (or happily) she was scheduled for an arranged marriage and wished to find a venue to hold the reception, hence the pretext of her visit. I always used to have an ideological discomfort with the concept of the arranged marriage. This wasn’t a specific cultural unease at the obligations of Hindu caste (it was also common practise in European aristocracy, whilst “shotgun” weddings are still commonplace in contemporary society), more that the fundamental principle of marital coercion seemed like an attack on liberty. As I’ve got older, I can't help but appreciate certain benefits to the arranged marriage. Especially on nights like tonight. In a few weeks time, some lucky bleeder will be spending every Saturday night with that angelic woman, and he won’t even have to go through all that kerfuffle woo-ing her with wit, charm and vast quantities of Blue WKD. They will just be together and he can take as lazy approach as he likes. And me, a criminally lazy woolly liberal, will most likely be sitting here alone, typing another slightly self-pitying blog entry before engaging in act of teary-eyed onanism.
So which of us seems the most liberated now?
I remember once at work, I obliged a hall viewing for an almost painfully pretty woman, the type so angelic that she almost makes one weep into your lonely pillow at night. Sadly (or happily) she was scheduled for an arranged marriage and wished to find a venue to hold the reception, hence the pretext of her visit. I always used to have an ideological discomfort with the concept of the arranged marriage. This wasn’t a specific cultural unease at the obligations of Hindu caste (it was also common practise in European aristocracy, whilst “shotgun” weddings are still commonplace in contemporary society), more that the fundamental principle of marital coercion seemed like an attack on liberty. As I’ve got older, I can't help but appreciate certain benefits to the arranged marriage. Especially on nights like tonight. In a few weeks time, some lucky bleeder will be spending every Saturday night with that angelic woman, and he won’t even have to go through all that kerfuffle woo-ing her with wit, charm and vast quantities of Blue WKD. They will just be together and he can take as lazy approach as he likes. And me, a criminally lazy woolly liberal, will most likely be sitting here alone, typing another slightly self-pitying blog entry before engaging in act of teary-eyed onanism.
So which of us seems the most liberated now?
Fri 4th Sept 2009
As I drove to work today Radio 4 seemed completely bereft of anything interesting to listen to. In an unprecedented shock decision, I ended up listening to Chris Moyles; who has apparently revived the “Golden Hour” feature. This is a segment which was started in the 70’s and popularised by Noel Edmonds and Simon Bates. The concept behind The Golden Hour is that Chris and his award-winning team of half-wits and morons all select a record each from one particular year. Meanwhile, listeners see if they can correctly guess the year in question by texting or emailing, adding who they are and what they’re currently doing. So you might hear a guess from Lisa who is looking forward to the weekend, whilst ironing towels in Chalfont, that sort of thing. Like an aural version of Twitter, but with mundane strangers and no opt-out clause. Occasionally, one of them will simply contact Chris to merely to say something like “Choon!”, which I believe is a ‘yoof-speak’ appreciation for having heard a song which is good. Presumably the usual playlist on Radio 1 now so god-damn awful, that the playing of a tolerable record deserves some kind of congratulatory message.
You’d have thought the revival of The Golden Hour wouldn’t be particularly amenable to the technological advancements thirty years on. Over the 70’s and 80’s people might call or fax their guesses. Nowadays it’s all texts and email. Surely the same mobile internet technology used to submit answers would also make it easy to research the year in which songs were released. Yet astonishingly, the Chris Moyles demographic still manage to email the wrong answers. At the end of the feature, he invites his team to see if they can guess the year. Worryingly, even some of them actually guess incorrectly, despite having only just picked a song each from that year.
Is the feature so flawed, it collapses under the weight of its own paradoxes? Or is it a disturbing barometer of our nation’s increasing idiocy? I honestly don’t know. Nevertheless, as a simple concept “The Golden Hour” still kinda works for me. But then hearing records from a past time when one was full of hopes and dreams is probably ideal listening for someone who is so clearly approaching a midlife crisis.
You’d have thought the revival of The Golden Hour wouldn’t be particularly amenable to the technological advancements thirty years on. Over the 70’s and 80’s people might call or fax their guesses. Nowadays it’s all texts and email. Surely the same mobile internet technology used to submit answers would also make it easy to research the year in which songs were released. Yet astonishingly, the Chris Moyles demographic still manage to email the wrong answers. At the end of the feature, he invites his team to see if they can guess the year. Worryingly, even some of them actually guess incorrectly, despite having only just picked a song each from that year.
Is the feature so flawed, it collapses under the weight of its own paradoxes? Or is it a disturbing barometer of our nation’s increasing idiocy? I honestly don’t know. Nevertheless, as a simple concept “The Golden Hour” still kinda works for me. But then hearing records from a past time when one was full of hopes and dreams is probably ideal listening for someone who is so clearly approaching a midlife crisis.
Thu 3rd Sept 2009
The landlady of our pub was selling raffle tickets this evening, but it was a raffle with a twist. The tickets were numbered one to 300 and you had to pick a ticket from a bag. You would then pay an amount of money which corresponded with the number on the ticket. For example, if you picked ticket no.147, you’d pay £1.47. If you picked ticket no.80, you’d pay 80p, and so on.
The prize was a 14 inch television. I did not want a 14” television, but I also did not want to look mean by abstaining from a charitable cause. So I offered to throw £1.50 into the jar just to forfeit my turn, which I thought was a fair amount, being exactly average. I pride myself being exactly average, and thought the whole ‘donation without any motives of personal gain’ thing made me look quite generous. But the landlady was having none of this, she would take it is a flat donation, but insisted that I should pull out a ticket anyway. If I wanted to forfeit my prize, I could simply donate it back to charity. Her logic was too tricky for me to argue against so I succumbed to her ugly, bedraggled charms, thrusting my hand into her sack of paper numbers.
I pulled out ticket 299.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been a spectacularly unlucky draw, being the second most expensive ticket in the whole bag. But I had made a standard flat donation of £1.50 donation in advance. I looked helplessly at the landlady, wondering what this would mean. “That’s ok”, she said as she scrawled the word “charity” on the back, “lots of people who didn’t have change had to round their contribution up, so there’s enough it cover the shortfall.”
So there you have it. In a tiny way, I briefly experienced what it must be like to have won a game of “Deal or No Deal” by playing safe and wisely accepting the banker’s offer at a timely occasion (albeit a game of “Deal or No Deal” where you have to pay money rather than accrue it). Whoever says fortune favours the brave? Technically, I had actually made a profit of £1.49! HA HA In your face, cancer charity!
Of course, some perfectionists could argue I would have made a higher profit had I drawn ticket 300. But I am quite please I only got ticket 299. I would not like to be the BEST at something. I fully intend to stay in the realms of anonymous mediocrity of any field. I’ve no desire to be a local celebrity. I wouldn’t enjoy the notoriety of having everyone pointing and whispering whenever I walk in the pub, being henceforth known as the man who pulled out most expensive ticket. I was on this occasion, by all accounts a winner.
The prize was a 14 inch television. I did not want a 14” television, but I also did not want to look mean by abstaining from a charitable cause. So I offered to throw £1.50 into the jar just to forfeit my turn, which I thought was a fair amount, being exactly average. I pride myself being exactly average, and thought the whole ‘donation without any motives of personal gain’ thing made me look quite generous. But the landlady was having none of this, she would take it is a flat donation, but insisted that I should pull out a ticket anyway. If I wanted to forfeit my prize, I could simply donate it back to charity. Her logic was too tricky for me to argue against so I succumbed to her ugly, bedraggled charms, thrusting my hand into her sack of paper numbers.
I pulled out ticket 299.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been a spectacularly unlucky draw, being the second most expensive ticket in the whole bag. But I had made a standard flat donation of £1.50 donation in advance. I looked helplessly at the landlady, wondering what this would mean. “That’s ok”, she said as she scrawled the word “charity” on the back, “lots of people who didn’t have change had to round their contribution up, so there’s enough it cover the shortfall.”
So there you have it. In a tiny way, I briefly experienced what it must be like to have won a game of “Deal or No Deal” by playing safe and wisely accepting the banker’s offer at a timely occasion (albeit a game of “Deal or No Deal” where you have to pay money rather than accrue it). Whoever says fortune favours the brave? Technically, I had actually made a profit of £1.49! HA HA In your face, cancer charity!
Of course, some perfectionists could argue I would have made a higher profit had I drawn ticket 300. But I am quite please I only got ticket 299. I would not like to be the BEST at something. I fully intend to stay in the realms of anonymous mediocrity of any field. I’ve no desire to be a local celebrity. I wouldn’t enjoy the notoriety of having everyone pointing and whispering whenever I walk in the pub, being henceforth known as the man who pulled out most expensive ticket. I was on this occasion, by all accounts a winner.
Wed 2nd Sept 2009
Today I found myself in the House of Frasier; the department store for all the unnecessary things that affluent people buy. Since I work in the town-centre I’d agreed to buy some Clarins hand-cream on behalf of a friend (apparently Boots hand-cream is not good enough). As I headed to the House of Frasier cream counter (if that’s what it’s called), the lady eyed me suspiciously and immediately asked if I needed any help. I was, after all, an unkempt bearded male, wearing the same Adidas tracksuit top that actually pre-dated the mid-nineties Oasis popularisation of the sportswear, with a pair of hole-ridden trousers from TJ Hughes and a band logo t-shirt adorned with a small circular stain from last night’s lasagne. There I was standing at a counter of hand cream, looking all Cigarettes and Alcohol in a world of Cigars and Actimel. Her question seemed a fair one.
In case you’re wondering, a tube of Clarins hand cream cost £16.50 for 100ml. Shocking really. Never mind the preservation youth, for that kind of money you’d expect to be able to cure stigmata or even resurrect the dead. Though I did notice it had extracts of Myrrh in the ingredients, so maybe the cream does have some divine and holy powers. But still - £16.50 – that seems an awful lot just for some cream. Personally I’d expect to be rubbing the ejaculation of Christ himself into my hands for that kind of money. In fact, even that wouldn’t be particularly great value when you consider the average ejaculation is only 10ml. That’s one tenth of an average tube. I would willingly come and personally masturbate into your hands for £1.65 a time. But then I am fairly desperate for money at the moment. I started my career as a booker in the entertainment industry ten years ago because I wanted to work with, and bring, hip and cool artists to the local area. And I don’t mean those acts reforming with session musicians for cynical money motivated reasons. I wanted the chance to be a part of something new, promoting acts that have something to say, and who can tear honesty and emotion from the pits of their soul and potentially use their art to reflect or even influence the world on some sociological or artistic level. But nowadays what with the credit-crunch and all, I can no longer afford to be picky. Today, I definitely reached a new low. I realised this the very moment I sent an email to confirm an appearance from The Chippendales.
What would my 20-old-self say if he could see what I had become, reduced to booking an oily, aged male strip troupe? It is the final humiliation of a frankly already chequered career. The only defensible thing I can say is that at least it’s all the original line-up of The Chippendales, so maybe it’s not quite as cynical as it could be. It’s nice they still get on.
Lord knows what they must look like nowadays. I just hope they’ve been plastering themselves with loads of that Clarins cream over the years. For everyone’s sake.
In case you’re wondering, a tube of Clarins hand cream cost £16.50 for 100ml. Shocking really. Never mind the preservation youth, for that kind of money you’d expect to be able to cure stigmata or even resurrect the dead. Though I did notice it had extracts of Myrrh in the ingredients, so maybe the cream does have some divine and holy powers. But still - £16.50 – that seems an awful lot just for some cream. Personally I’d expect to be rubbing the ejaculation of Christ himself into my hands for that kind of money. In fact, even that wouldn’t be particularly great value when you consider the average ejaculation is only 10ml. That’s one tenth of an average tube. I would willingly come and personally masturbate into your hands for £1.65 a time. But then I am fairly desperate for money at the moment. I started my career as a booker in the entertainment industry ten years ago because I wanted to work with, and bring, hip and cool artists to the local area. And I don’t mean those acts reforming with session musicians for cynical money motivated reasons. I wanted the chance to be a part of something new, promoting acts that have something to say, and who can tear honesty and emotion from the pits of their soul and potentially use their art to reflect or even influence the world on some sociological or artistic level. But nowadays what with the credit-crunch and all, I can no longer afford to be picky. Today, I definitely reached a new low. I realised this the very moment I sent an email to confirm an appearance from The Chippendales.
What would my 20-old-self say if he could see what I had become, reduced to booking an oily, aged male strip troupe? It is the final humiliation of a frankly already chequered career. The only defensible thing I can say is that at least it’s all the original line-up of The Chippendales, so maybe it’s not quite as cynical as it could be. It’s nice they still get on.
Lord knows what they must look like nowadays. I just hope they’ve been plastering themselves with loads of that Clarins cream over the years. For everyone’s sake.
Tue 1st Sept 2009
So the last bank holiday of the summer is over. Believe it or not, this time round I feel a strange sense of relief to get back to the mundane normality of work, especially after this particular weekend.
It all started on Saturday. I was woken with a slightly hung-over fug, by a text message which would change the intended course of my bank holiday weekend to an unprecedented degree. The message was from a colleague who said he was at Reading Festival and had a spare guest pass if I would like to use it. All I had to do was arrive and say I was his plus one and I’d have a free weekend of festival frollocks. I know this sounds ungrateful and a bit miserable, but it was actually the last thing I wanted to do given the fragile state of my head and my first reaction was to quickly scan my mind for a viable excuse to decline this kind offer. It was not the thought of being at the festival that I objected to, but more the effort which it entails – the packing, the long drive, the walking about with sacks of heavy gear, the waiting in queues etc. Going to a festival is one of those things that sounds nice in principle (and sometime I even genuinely look forward to it), but it all seemed quite a bit of effort for what was essentially half a festival, since it was now Saturday morning and the festival had started Friday and ended Sunday. I would also have to go alone, which made motivation seem even more difficult to muster. However, I somehow managed to talk myself into going (Sorry – there I go again. I know I sound terribly miserable making it seem like such a big effort). I had no pressing plans to attend to (I can lol around in my pants any weekend) and I’d never been to Reading Festival before. I didn’t want to waste my time on a tenuous whim, so I sent my colleague a text to ensure that I would actually get in ok. The reply came back –
“Your on my guestlist. Say my name at guestlist box office. Then your in. Upto chap. Its on a plate if you want vip”
Reasoning that surely it is better to seize the opportunity of life experiences, this message had seemed to swing it. Better to regret the things you’ve done rather than not done, and all that. I could overlook the grammatical errors, the missing apostrophes and repeated misuse of the word “your” instead of “you’re” in the message. And when I started bundling my camping gear together it all seemed a rather spontaneous and exciting. Maybe even a little dangerous, like being overcome by some sort of compulsive madness. I even dug out my old combat trousers, which I have not worn for at least 4 years. But I should not have bothered rushing. An accident on the motorway would ensure my journey would be sufficiently delayed enough to eat another couple of hours into my already-scant festival time.
I got into Reading some 4 hours later, following signs to the guest parking area. I felt a little bit nervous because I did not have a ticket or indeed any kind of physical confirmation that I’d be on any guest list, so I was anticipating that I would be prohibited to park because all the other cars had car stickers. I wound my window down and asked the parking attendant where “Guest List Box Office” was. She had no idea but the question seemed to clinch some sort of assurance that I was not some sort of blagger looking for free, irrelevant non-festival parking. This all seemed too easy. Although maybe there was a good reason for any lack of parking vigilance, as I discovered when I ambled off to find the box office. If you are familiar with the Reading festival, you will know that it also has a sister festival in Leeds. And to be honest, I think the walking distance from the car park to either of the sites may well have been equidistant. Honestly, I had to traipse for about a mile and a half before I even reached the festival gates. I was certainly not looking forward to having to cart all my tent and luggage over such a distance. It was also during this walk I had time to recall why I no longer wore my old trusty combat trousers. The fly on them had broke and was no longer able to lock, so the zip kept slipping down. I had to keep stopping every dozen yards or so to hoist myself back up, which did not aid my already lengthy journey time very much at all.
Eventually I arrived at the box office to obtain my guest-list entry wristband. After about 15 minutes queuing, I found myself at the window, announcing my colleague’s name as planned. I am not a big fan of the guest list procedure at the best of times. I like the free entry bit, but the actual act of announcing “I’m on the guest list” always makes me feel like a self-important ponce. But what I fear more is the chance that someone will have forgotten to put me on the list at all. Apparently this was a fear I would be learning to face today. The girl looked on her computer. Then she looked down a printed list on a clipboard. Then she looked in a cardboard concertina folder. All in punishing detail. Whilst everyone else in the queue stood looking, in anticipation of my fate. Eventually she returned to the window.
“Sorry, you don’t appear to be on the list.” She announced apologetically. “Who was supposed to have put you on?”
I wasn’t actually sure because my colleague had not told me who had put his name on. I admitted this to the woman, and to save any more inconvenience to the other people waiting, I announced I would return once I’d made a phone call. “Ok, yes. Find out a bit more information and come back” she agreed. I took a walk of shame back down the queue, wristband-less and looking like a failed chancer who was merely delaying other’s entrance to the festival. I texted my friend to find out who’s guestlist he was supposed to be on, then I joined the queue again, waiting for what would effectively be my second humiliation.
“Oh, so you’re someone ELSE’S plus one are you?” she asked this time (even though I had announced this on my last visit). “Yes” I said.
“Well I couldn’t let you in any way I’m afraid. Not without the person whose name it’s under. They need to be with you. Otherwise, how would I know you are really his plus one?”. Once again, I would shrink back down the queue, avoiding eye contact, looking once more like a foiled imposter.
I phoned my colleague and explained the situation, telling him he would need to be at the box office to get me in. He agreed to meet me at the gates. But not yet. Dave Grohl was in the middle of a surprise set. I waited at the entrance next to the security man who had now witnessed me fail to obtain entry twice. We did not talk though. I guess we were both a bit embarrassed for me. And this was likely to be the only thing we’d have in common.
At last! Third time lucky. When my colleague arrived I finally got my wristband. Incidentally, they had not found his name on the list, but were willing to give the benefit of the doubt, conceding that they may have made an error because we had arrived separately and this had confused them (?). It was hardly a “VIP pass on a plate” as promised, but at least I could now finally get in. There was just the small matter of the one and a half mile walk back to my car to get my camping stuff and the one and a half mile traipse back to the festival carrying it.
“Incidentally,” I asked my colleague, “I’ve never been here before. Where exactly is the camping area?”
“I dunno.” He replied. “I’m not sure whether you can camp with that. I think you might need a camping wristband.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “Well where are you camping?”
“Oh, I don’t bother with all that camping lark. I’ve got a hotel.”
And so came the next bombshell of this ill-fated trip. Apparently I was going to have to sleep in the car. A car that would be parked a mile and a half away. Either I was going to have to get completely legless in order to sleep in such an uncomfortable cradle, or I’d have to stay stone-cold sober and just drive home after the first day (of which there was already little left of). But either way, I would need to return to the carpark anyway. Since I had not been anticipating such a long walk when I’d set off, I’d left all my provisions in the boot. At the very least I would need my rucksack with my coat in it. I did not want to enter the festival arena just to have to head back at dusk when it started to get chilly. I’d rather get things sorted out now and get them out of the way. Off I trekked.
Fast forward thirty minutes and a mile and half later, I am back sitting in my car. I need a rest. It is now nearly half six. At this point I am seriously considering just starting the engine and writing the whole trip off as a bad idea. I even have the keys in the ignition. But something stops me. I think it is the sense of guilt I’d feel after dragging my colleague out of the festival to get me in, only to just disrespectfully sod off after he’s done me a favour by offering me his spare pass in the first place. The least I can do is spend a bit of time with him in the arena. Eventually I jump out my car, stuff my rucksack with the required provisions and resolve to head back off to the festival site. As I am getting out of the car, two men walking a pitbull approach me.
“You going to the festival? Do you wanna buy any weed?” one of them asks.
“No thanks, I’m paranoid enough”, I reply, and continue walking. One of them laughs. The other looks slightly pissed off.
I’m sure they do not mean me any harm, but they seem to want to walk on the same river-side path as me and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I seek an alternative route. I get briefly lost, adding another 20 minutes on the already epic journey.
I arrive at the festival gates. At last. It has only taken seven hours to get here. As I walk through the barriers, a man checks my wristband and points me through the entry. I walk round the corner expecting to be in the arena with bands playing and stuff, but actually find myself it a big field of tents. How did I manage to get in here? This can only mean one thing. I approach one of the stewards.
“Excuse me mate, am I allowed to camp in here?” I ask.
He checks my wristband. “Of course you can,” he replies, “you’re a guest. You can camp where you like!”
“It’s just... I thought I had to sleep in the car...”
He shakes his head, “No mate. Go get your stuff. Camp where you like.” he repeats.
By now I’m getting quite tired and emotional. I could hug him. I could also punch him because I’ve now yet another three mile walk ahead of me, and yet another hour of the festival lost. That’s not even counting the time it will take me to erect my tent. But at least I can now apparently sleep in a tent...
Carrying my luggage from the car back to the festival site was not easy. I had a rucksack, a big holdall bag, a sleeping bag and a tent. I should be able to sleep well tonight because by now I am totally knackered. After the first half a mile my arms feel like they are being physically garrotted by the luggage. My feet and legs are aching more than they usually do at the end of a festival weekend, yet I’ve not seen a single band yet. And worse still, the fly-hole on my combat trousers is down and I have no free hands to zip it back up again, so whenever anyone approaches me, I feel like a sex-pest who is surreptitiously, yet very deliberately trying to expose his underwear.
It is dusk by the time I arrive back at the site with my luggage. Setting a tent up in the dark is quite a challenge and seems to take a lot longer than usual. When I actually get into the festival arena The Prodigy are smacking their bitches up, or whatever it is they do. And they were the penultimate band. In fact my arrival is so late, that when I text my colleague to announce my arrival and try and meet up with him, he replies that he’s been on the ale since 11am and is intending to head back to his hotel very shortly. The whole thing has been farcical. I spend the rest of the evening wondering round the festival site on my own, learning to get my bearings. As the Arctic Monkeys take to the stage, a young girl approaches me and asks if she can have a gobble on the end of my frankfurter. Absolutely true. Sadly, this is not a euphemism. Otherwise, it might have provided a happy ending to an otherwise fairly shitty day. But as it turned out, I was basically giving a stranger a quid’s worth of my over-priced food.
I guzzled a few pints of over-priced lager and stumbled back to my tent, hoping to get a good night’s sleep ready for a full (and hopefully much more successful) day of festival tomorrow. Any initial worries I had about finding my temporary canvas home were ill-founded. I found my tent straight away, because it was the only one earmarked by a big sack of rubbish that had blown against the side of it. I fought through the litter, unzipped the door, dived in and lay down. My legs had a funny (but not entirely unpleasant) buzzy feeling.
I did not quite get the great night’s sleep I had been hoping for. Sadly there were a bunch of mates who intended to stay up chatting. One of them was particularly talkative, but annoyingly loud with it too. He just went on and on about drugs and girls for hours and hours. It was like having an acapella version of The Streets outside your tent all night. And as I the temperature dropped, I lay fully clothed in my sleeping bag, wide awake and shivering, promising myself that I will never ever do anything spontaneous again.
It all started on Saturday. I was woken with a slightly hung-over fug, by a text message which would change the intended course of my bank holiday weekend to an unprecedented degree. The message was from a colleague who said he was at Reading Festival and had a spare guest pass if I would like to use it. All I had to do was arrive and say I was his plus one and I’d have a free weekend of festival frollocks. I know this sounds ungrateful and a bit miserable, but it was actually the last thing I wanted to do given the fragile state of my head and my first reaction was to quickly scan my mind for a viable excuse to decline this kind offer. It was not the thought of being at the festival that I objected to, but more the effort which it entails – the packing, the long drive, the walking about with sacks of heavy gear, the waiting in queues etc. Going to a festival is one of those things that sounds nice in principle (and sometime I even genuinely look forward to it), but it all seemed quite a bit of effort for what was essentially half a festival, since it was now Saturday morning and the festival had started Friday and ended Sunday. I would also have to go alone, which made motivation seem even more difficult to muster. However, I somehow managed to talk myself into going (Sorry – there I go again. I know I sound terribly miserable making it seem like such a big effort). I had no pressing plans to attend to (I can lol around in my pants any weekend) and I’d never been to Reading Festival before. I didn’t want to waste my time on a tenuous whim, so I sent my colleague a text to ensure that I would actually get in ok. The reply came back –
“Your on my guestlist. Say my name at guestlist box office. Then your in. Upto chap. Its on a plate if you want vip”
Reasoning that surely it is better to seize the opportunity of life experiences, this message had seemed to swing it. Better to regret the things you’ve done rather than not done, and all that. I could overlook the grammatical errors, the missing apostrophes and repeated misuse of the word “your” instead of “you’re” in the message. And when I started bundling my camping gear together it all seemed a rather spontaneous and exciting. Maybe even a little dangerous, like being overcome by some sort of compulsive madness. I even dug out my old combat trousers, which I have not worn for at least 4 years. But I should not have bothered rushing. An accident on the motorway would ensure my journey would be sufficiently delayed enough to eat another couple of hours into my already-scant festival time.
I got into Reading some 4 hours later, following signs to the guest parking area. I felt a little bit nervous because I did not have a ticket or indeed any kind of physical confirmation that I’d be on any guest list, so I was anticipating that I would be prohibited to park because all the other cars had car stickers. I wound my window down and asked the parking attendant where “Guest List Box Office” was. She had no idea but the question seemed to clinch some sort of assurance that I was not some sort of blagger looking for free, irrelevant non-festival parking. This all seemed too easy. Although maybe there was a good reason for any lack of parking vigilance, as I discovered when I ambled off to find the box office. If you are familiar with the Reading festival, you will know that it also has a sister festival in Leeds. And to be honest, I think the walking distance from the car park to either of the sites may well have been equidistant. Honestly, I had to traipse for about a mile and a half before I even reached the festival gates. I was certainly not looking forward to having to cart all my tent and luggage over such a distance. It was also during this walk I had time to recall why I no longer wore my old trusty combat trousers. The fly on them had broke and was no longer able to lock, so the zip kept slipping down. I had to keep stopping every dozen yards or so to hoist myself back up, which did not aid my already lengthy journey time very much at all.
Eventually I arrived at the box office to obtain my guest-list entry wristband. After about 15 minutes queuing, I found myself at the window, announcing my colleague’s name as planned. I am not a big fan of the guest list procedure at the best of times. I like the free entry bit, but the actual act of announcing “I’m on the guest list” always makes me feel like a self-important ponce. But what I fear more is the chance that someone will have forgotten to put me on the list at all. Apparently this was a fear I would be learning to face today. The girl looked on her computer. Then she looked down a printed list on a clipboard. Then she looked in a cardboard concertina folder. All in punishing detail. Whilst everyone else in the queue stood looking, in anticipation of my fate. Eventually she returned to the window.
“Sorry, you don’t appear to be on the list.” She announced apologetically. “Who was supposed to have put you on?”
I wasn’t actually sure because my colleague had not told me who had put his name on. I admitted this to the woman, and to save any more inconvenience to the other people waiting, I announced I would return once I’d made a phone call. “Ok, yes. Find out a bit more information and come back” she agreed. I took a walk of shame back down the queue, wristband-less and looking like a failed chancer who was merely delaying other’s entrance to the festival. I texted my friend to find out who’s guestlist he was supposed to be on, then I joined the queue again, waiting for what would effectively be my second humiliation.
“Oh, so you’re someone ELSE’S plus one are you?” she asked this time (even though I had announced this on my last visit). “Yes” I said.
“Well I couldn’t let you in any way I’m afraid. Not without the person whose name it’s under. They need to be with you. Otherwise, how would I know you are really his plus one?”. Once again, I would shrink back down the queue, avoiding eye contact, looking once more like a foiled imposter.
I phoned my colleague and explained the situation, telling him he would need to be at the box office to get me in. He agreed to meet me at the gates. But not yet. Dave Grohl was in the middle of a surprise set. I waited at the entrance next to the security man who had now witnessed me fail to obtain entry twice. We did not talk though. I guess we were both a bit embarrassed for me. And this was likely to be the only thing we’d have in common.
At last! Third time lucky. When my colleague arrived I finally got my wristband. Incidentally, they had not found his name on the list, but were willing to give the benefit of the doubt, conceding that they may have made an error because we had arrived separately and this had confused them (?). It was hardly a “VIP pass on a plate” as promised, but at least I could now finally get in. There was just the small matter of the one and a half mile walk back to my car to get my camping stuff and the one and a half mile traipse back to the festival carrying it.
“Incidentally,” I asked my colleague, “I’ve never been here before. Where exactly is the camping area?”
“I dunno.” He replied. “I’m not sure whether you can camp with that. I think you might need a camping wristband.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “Well where are you camping?”
“Oh, I don’t bother with all that camping lark. I’ve got a hotel.”
And so came the next bombshell of this ill-fated trip. Apparently I was going to have to sleep in the car. A car that would be parked a mile and a half away. Either I was going to have to get completely legless in order to sleep in such an uncomfortable cradle, or I’d have to stay stone-cold sober and just drive home after the first day (of which there was already little left of). But either way, I would need to return to the carpark anyway. Since I had not been anticipating such a long walk when I’d set off, I’d left all my provisions in the boot. At the very least I would need my rucksack with my coat in it. I did not want to enter the festival arena just to have to head back at dusk when it started to get chilly. I’d rather get things sorted out now and get them out of the way. Off I trekked.
Fast forward thirty minutes and a mile and half later, I am back sitting in my car. I need a rest. It is now nearly half six. At this point I am seriously considering just starting the engine and writing the whole trip off as a bad idea. I even have the keys in the ignition. But something stops me. I think it is the sense of guilt I’d feel after dragging my colleague out of the festival to get me in, only to just disrespectfully sod off after he’s done me a favour by offering me his spare pass in the first place. The least I can do is spend a bit of time with him in the arena. Eventually I jump out my car, stuff my rucksack with the required provisions and resolve to head back off to the festival site. As I am getting out of the car, two men walking a pitbull approach me.
“You going to the festival? Do you wanna buy any weed?” one of them asks.
“No thanks, I’m paranoid enough”, I reply, and continue walking. One of them laughs. The other looks slightly pissed off.
I’m sure they do not mean me any harm, but they seem to want to walk on the same river-side path as me and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I seek an alternative route. I get briefly lost, adding another 20 minutes on the already epic journey.
I arrive at the festival gates. At last. It has only taken seven hours to get here. As I walk through the barriers, a man checks my wristband and points me through the entry. I walk round the corner expecting to be in the arena with bands playing and stuff, but actually find myself it a big field of tents. How did I manage to get in here? This can only mean one thing. I approach one of the stewards.
“Excuse me mate, am I allowed to camp in here?” I ask.
He checks my wristband. “Of course you can,” he replies, “you’re a guest. You can camp where you like!”
“It’s just... I thought I had to sleep in the car...”
He shakes his head, “No mate. Go get your stuff. Camp where you like.” he repeats.
By now I’m getting quite tired and emotional. I could hug him. I could also punch him because I’ve now yet another three mile walk ahead of me, and yet another hour of the festival lost. That’s not even counting the time it will take me to erect my tent. But at least I can now apparently sleep in a tent...
Carrying my luggage from the car back to the festival site was not easy. I had a rucksack, a big holdall bag, a sleeping bag and a tent. I should be able to sleep well tonight because by now I am totally knackered. After the first half a mile my arms feel like they are being physically garrotted by the luggage. My feet and legs are aching more than they usually do at the end of a festival weekend, yet I’ve not seen a single band yet. And worse still, the fly-hole on my combat trousers is down and I have no free hands to zip it back up again, so whenever anyone approaches me, I feel like a sex-pest who is surreptitiously, yet very deliberately trying to expose his underwear.
It is dusk by the time I arrive back at the site with my luggage. Setting a tent up in the dark is quite a challenge and seems to take a lot longer than usual. When I actually get into the festival arena The Prodigy are smacking their bitches up, or whatever it is they do. And they were the penultimate band. In fact my arrival is so late, that when I text my colleague to announce my arrival and try and meet up with him, he replies that he’s been on the ale since 11am and is intending to head back to his hotel very shortly. The whole thing has been farcical. I spend the rest of the evening wondering round the festival site on my own, learning to get my bearings. As the Arctic Monkeys take to the stage, a young girl approaches me and asks if she can have a gobble on the end of my frankfurter. Absolutely true. Sadly, this is not a euphemism. Otherwise, it might have provided a happy ending to an otherwise fairly shitty day. But as it turned out, I was basically giving a stranger a quid’s worth of my over-priced food.
I guzzled a few pints of over-priced lager and stumbled back to my tent, hoping to get a good night’s sleep ready for a full (and hopefully much more successful) day of festival tomorrow. Any initial worries I had about finding my temporary canvas home were ill-founded. I found my tent straight away, because it was the only one earmarked by a big sack of rubbish that had blown against the side of it. I fought through the litter, unzipped the door, dived in and lay down. My legs had a funny (but not entirely unpleasant) buzzy feeling.
I did not quite get the great night’s sleep I had been hoping for. Sadly there were a bunch of mates who intended to stay up chatting. One of them was particularly talkative, but annoyingly loud with it too. He just went on and on about drugs and girls for hours and hours. It was like having an acapella version of The Streets outside your tent all night. And as I the temperature dropped, I lay fully clothed in my sleeping bag, wide awake and shivering, promising myself that I will never ever do anything spontaneous again.
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