What really annoys me about muddy festivals is there is always one ‘crazy loon’ (twat) who thinks it’s really funny to slide around in the mud, laughing manically while smearing mud on their face, in their hair, over their tops. They are usually not one, actually, but a group of equally annoying ‘mad’ people all throwing mud at each other and having a really fun time.
As I watch them from the sanity, sanctity and sanctuary of my waterproofs, I can’t help thinking that they haven’t thought through their little game.
I mean, what are the practicalities of mud swimming? You get muddy, wet and cold very quickly. Then what? You go back to your tent where you don’t have a shower and you get changed into cold wet clothes that haven’t been hanging over a warm radiator.
Do they sleep like that? Doesn’t the mud dry on their faces?
Another thing that annoys me about festivals is the eternal question when you get back – what bands did you see. I didn’t see any bloody bands. Screw the bands!
Festivals are about getting drunk and talking to strangers. Festivals are about meeting people called Strider and drinking cider for breakfast. They are about realising your friends are so brilliant they could be in that Carling advert where all the great friends play cricket on the beach and DO NOT play in the mud. Something in the festival air made me love my friends very much indeed.
Ok, I think I did see the Bees, or at least was in ear shot of them. Apparently I was at Hot Chip. The one guy I did want to see, Scroobious Pip, changed his slot and played before his allocated time so we missed him. His loss.
The music guides were £6 which really annoyed me too as I’d already forked out £150 to bloody walk through the muddy gate. Surely that should be included in the price?
But I didn’t need a guide. I just needed to know where Cesca was at all times to ensure I was having optimum fun. And fun I did have. So much so that I think I have slipped into depression now.
I cried last night and even went so far as to doubt myself as a person which is ridiculous as I’m pretty bloody brilliant. If I remember correctly I cried because I asked Gareth to talk to me about some twaddle and he suggested we play table tennis. Tear-worthy stuff.
I think this Bestival was my third favourite festival. I don’t like to moan about the mud, much, but it is a challenge. But one that this year I think we conquered.
Last year at Glastonbury, the mud definitely won. But this year, we won. We didn’t talk to nearly enough strangers but without grass to run around on or sunshine to run around in, I think people were less inclined to entwine. I’ll never forget Strider and Guy but there should have been 400 of them, each night. Most of the time, I'd even go so far as to describe Laurence as quiet. Unheard of.
Next year, it’s going to be sunny. The Isle of Wight has it’s own weather system, you see. It’s not like the mainland. Doesn't generate clouds, I tell you.
Last weekend was just a hiccup in the ever sunny realm of summer that is the Isle of Wight, and next year we will return almighty and hearts will be touched once more. Even just thinking about it is bringing me out of my depression and into a much sunnier disposition. Anyone for table tennis?
"The composition of my soul is made, too great for servile, avaricious trade.
When raving in the lunacy of ink, I catch my pen and publish what I think."
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