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.
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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