in which Phill Jupitus nearly steals my toy bee.
So, due to a combination of intense poverty, surprising lameness of friends ["what do you MEAN you 'don't want to go'???"] and having an incurable brain disease that made me [not to mention my supremely-worried and protective parents] wary of going more than an hour away from my local hospital I didn't pop my festival cherry until last year, at the creakingly old age of 22.

Did I get wasted and muddy at Glasto? Or spazzed out at Reading? How about writhing in metally hardcority at Download? No, in fact, I opted for the wonderfully genteel and astoundingly middle-class, theatre/comedy/poetry/literature/music festival Latitude. Nice mid-sized festival, still new enough for the arseholes not to have caught on, established enough to have a pretty damn good comedy lineup. Good place for me to cut my naive, crowd-fearing festival teeth.

So, it's Day 3 and there i was, in a happy post-smoke fuzz [i'm quite a lightweight] with some newly-met friends, happy and chilled out enough to get over my usual "shit-shit-you're-in-a-crowd-someone's-gonna-mug-you-someone's-gonna-mug-you" anxiety and blearily discussing 'current affairs' in the astoundingly confident, yet uninformed way that only drugged people can manage. I'm assertively stating my point about fuck-knows-what when, surrounded by a light cluster of hangers-on, a pork-pie-hatted, beponcho'ed and overwhelmingly fucked up rolypoly vision strolls slowly towards me.

I actually manage to finish my sentence before my eyes catch up to my mouth and i interrupt my friend's rebuttal with a casual "Phill Jupitus just walked past." I know that i want to jump up and ask him for an autograph, but somehow i'm not quite sure if i can be bothered. My bag IS all the way down on the floor, after all... We all double-take and confer to make sure. Yes. it absolutely is him. Definitely. and, by all that is stripey and wasted - is he off his TITS...

Digging around for my mascot and camera [i'm an ugly fatto, so take a small stuffed toy to act as a placeholder in photo-taking situations] I wander over to him, trying to work out a way to say "oh my god it's YOU! HI! Sign here and smile while i take a picture!!!" without seeming like a squealing fangirl.

Turns out that I didn't have to. He's already been caught by another fan, and is enthusiastically scrawling his name on a scrap of paper when he stops mid-signature, jawdrops and GRABS for my mascot. His name is BobTheBee.

"WOW!" he chortles, hugging him in delight. "WHO IS THIS???" he shakes the toy at me emphatically, then gently strokes it as if to apologise for the rough treatment.

"Uh, uh, it's my toy. His name's Bob. He's a bee" I wave my camera vaguely. "Can I take a picture?"
"Wooooooooowwwwww....." he gazes lovingly into Bob's button eyes, enthralled as if hit by Cupid's 'Toybestial' arrow. I slyly snap a picture from the shoulder in case he - or his considerably more together friend - refuse to let me take a proper one.

"Bobbbbbb..." he strokes the bee again, grinning to himself.
"Uh, Phill? Can I take a picture?" I wave the camera once more to illustrate.
"OF COURSE!!!" he beams, posting gleefully with the toy. I turn on the flash snap a second picture and as soon as it's done he snuggles up to the bee again. I smile grin, cos it's kinda cute: massive stripey man, tiny stripey bee; then reach to take Bob back.

He holds on.

"Um. can i have my bee?" I pull a little harder, not really wanting to enter into a tug of war with him, not with all these people watching, anyway. There's not really any way i'm going to go without him, i love my bee!

His big happy face contorts into heartbroken expression and he clings on for a moment longer, nuzzling up to Bob's none-too-clean fur. Finally, with a tender squeeze, he relinquishes the toy but not before yanking me into a bearhug, pressing my rather confused face into the fuzzy scratchiness of his newly-bought festival poncho.

"BYEEEEE BOB!" he calls, waving sadly, and for a stabbing moment i feel somewhat bad for breaking up what was surely destined to be a beautiful lifelong relationship between large funnyman and small stuffed bee. I mean, who am i to stand in the way of true love? Sure, it's an unconventional relationship, but with his money and fame, it's likely that Phill could show BobTheBee a much better and more glamorous life than i ever could. Could i really bear to live my life knowing i had destroyed what could have been something truly momentous?

I hesitate for a moment, but selfishness wins out. He's MY fucking bee. He's gonna STAY mine! I get Bob to wave a fond farewell to his brief but passionate love, steeling myself for the inevitable sobbing outburst that must surely follow his departure but before i've even turned to leave, he lets out a huge squeal of delight and launches himself joyously at someone else.

Someone who has a big, cool, minty, refreshing Cornetto.

Ah, how quickly love is forgotten....



As for Bob, he still has his memories, and a fucking fantastic photo to look back on:



Click for bigger (121 kb)



[HOGROAST!]
( Seventh is somewhat subdued, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 17:49, 11 replies)

It was night time. I needed a wee
and I had a rumbly tummy, which meant a runny bottom was on its way. It was dark, I was covered in green face paint and glowing red devil horns, a gift acquired from some suspiciously young girls in the Green Fields.

I approached the Glastonbury Portaloo with trepidation, smelling its foul contents from some distance away. As I stepped inside, the stench became overwhelming so I transferred my torch to my mouth, held the door open with one hand to let some air into the cubicle and maintained my aim with the other.

Unfortunately, the unholy stink had activated my guts, and a full rectal purge was now underway. Cursing my weak constitution, I decided against all reason to peer into the bowl to see what I was up against. The sight that greeted my weary eyes was so appalling my mouth automatically formed an 'OMG' and lost its grip on the handle of my torch. It fell through the seat hole and into the fetid mire below, landing handle-first and upright and still very much switched on. I considered my options to retrieve it, but it was embedded deep in the funk and the shitwolves were howling at my bumdoor. I turned round to find that the lock was broken too.

Disappointed with the way things were turning out, I dropped my trousers and perched above the glowing seat, which now resembled a kind of ghoulish uplighter. As my sphincter yawned I released the first of many hot, wet and exceptionally stinky colon burps. Seconds later, the door swung open and I was blinded by light and deafened by screaming.

Somewhat unsettled by this development, I rose from my squat in a literal blind panic and tried desperately to wipe myself off, still suffering retina-burn when I heard the door open again.

Emerging into view was a large, half-naked bald man with eyes like dinner plates. "Fucking hell mate, what have you been eating" he uttered, swiftly followed by "My missus is tripping badly, she's just run back to our tent and swore that she just saw the devil himself shitting out evil demons"

I cleaned myself up and was persuaded to join them both for few cans of warm lager and a lovely "Camberwell Carrot" in an attempt to calm her down again.
( chart cat has an itch, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 10:02, 22 replies)

Broken heart, LSD, Hitch hiking. Sheds.Psycho lady. Kidnapping.
Okay long story short, i'd recntly split up with my girlfriend but we had tickets booked for the sunrise festival and decided we'd still both go with down there with our mates.

The first day or two wasn't good. Despite the festival being amazingly good, i was unhappy...
It was too much to take, she acted like a total stranger to me, she ignord me and the coldness was what hurt the most. I couldn't really enjoy myself at first. I had too much inner turmoil, and seeing her laughing and joking with other guys, was too much too take.

So i thought, sod her... I'll gobble some acid. And gobble some acid i truly did. Two sugar cubes of LSD and a tab later, i was high as a kite. The day was perfectly sunny, the bands were amazing and i seem to recall dancing like a maniac to some kind of live drum and bass performance, played on strings, drums, keyboard and double bass... Truly the best band i've ever seen, but to this day i have no fucking idea who they were.

The rest of the day was an obscure blur on my brain. Eat static and red wine, manic dancing, befriending a one eyed juggler; sitting wild eyed in a reggae tent and talking absolute shit to anybody that would listen, and generally just having an amazing time.

But then everything went wrong.

I spent the arse of end the main night in an LSD induced state of mental break down in my tent. The love of my life, we'd travelled the world together, lived together and shared a dream.... was ignoring me. It suddenly hurt again.

I can honestly say, i've never cried so much, uncontrollable sobbing, partially due to emotional struggle and mainly due to tha vast quantity of LSD in my system. My friend Libby found me, she was an absolute angel, she didnt even say anything to me, just stroked my head and hugged me. That at least sent me to sleep, to a land of delirious dreams and sun burned restlesness.

Anyway...
The next day. Presumably still high, obviously NOT thinking straight...
In a last ditch effort to win her heart, i decided that i would refuse my mates offer of a lift back from the festival today (Somerset to Merseyside) , instead i would try and woo her.


I thought she would love the fact that i'd stayed down south for her, hoping she would admire my recklessnes, maybe just maybe it would be alright...

But no.... She ignored me.

So here i was. Stuck in a festival that was pretty much over, stuck with my big fucking rucksack and tent and little bags of souveniers, in the baking heat and suddenly realising i'd lost my wallet. The girl i'd stayed for had bugered off, and slowly reality was kicking in.

Fucksocks.

The next three hours i spent looking for my wallet. But it was no use, it was gone. So i thought the next best option would be to hitch hike to glastonbury.
No problemo, a lovely hippy couple picked me up and drove me for thirty minutes and dropped me off in Glastonbury.

Great... I vaguely knew a couple who lived in the town, so i thought i'd pay them a visit and possibly use their phone and sort something out. I wandered to their house and saw a guy in their garden.

It turned out to be their landlord (who happened to live in a shed in the garden), who turned out to be a complete tosser. He didn't believe that i knew the people who lived there and that i should clear off. He didn't listen to my point that i knew the names of the occupants and that i simply wanted to abandon my bags for a few minutes, drink some water and rest up.

The cruel bastard didn't even give me any water.

At this point, i'd had enough. The sun was baking me. I was delirious and simply wanted my bed. Yet here i was on the other side of the country, trying to beg for water.

I wandered to the edge of town, knowing that if i headed for a few miles in one direction i would at least be on the right path for the motorway. Easy. Simple.

So i stuck out my thumb and patiently waited for a good samaritan to pick up this bedraggled northerner. My lift arrived in the form of a thirty odd year old woman in a converted ambulance, that looked like she lived in it.

'Where to?' , she asked.

'To the motorway, so i can hitch home, i've just come from the sunrise festival in Somerset'

'Okay no problem, clamber in, you'll have to get in through the back and sit in the front because the door on your side is broken'

'Thankyou'

So at least i was on the right track. Soon i would be home (hopefully).

The nice lady seemed quite chatty. Perhaps a little too chatty. Maybe it's nerves though. She doesn't know me. So why did she pick me up?

Why has she got the fucking heating on full blast on a burning hot day. Why is she talking to me about her friends in an overly-familiar way as though i'm supposed to know them.

Why is she looking at me like that. A kind of vietnam stare.

Why are we driving this way?

Yep, i'd been kidnapped. She totally ignored my request that i wanted to leave the vehicle. She was driving completely the wrong way. God knows where she was taking me. I was already too tired, too hot, and now very, very scared...

She drove me for many miles down lonely roads, even once laughing when she got lost and ended up reversing down a long arse country road, seemingly choosing directions at random.

I couldn't honestly do anything. I couldn't jump out the vehicle because my door was buggered and my bags were in the back, i couldn't wind down the window, i politely asked her to turn the cooling down, but she said she had to leave it on because the engine was overheating and still she was driving me the wrong way.

I asked her if i could get out.

'But you're in the middle of nowhere' was her reply.

She had a point. Nothing but obscure country roads and little towns, and i was without a map.

After maybe and hour and half, of her rabbiting on about her equally strange friends, she finally, finally dropped me off....

At the fucking festival. The same fucking festival i had left many hours ago.

I jumped out the van, thanked her (for not raping or killing me) and
collapsed on the grass for an hour or so, resting and trying to decipher if this was just some kind of strange dream. A lovely lady gave me a bottle of water (which probably saved my life) and then i had to hitch hike back to Glastonbury and try again.

This time hitchhiking back was a problem. Nobody wanted to pick me up. I was wild eyed, sweating, shaking and burned.

It took me at least another two hours to get a lift, and eventually i was back in fucking Glastonbury. It was getting dark and i was completely alone and didn't really fancy my chances of risking another psycho picking me up.

So i did what anybody would do in my circumstance. I walked back to the landlord guys house and waited for his shed light to go out and then i crept into the garden and fell asleep at the back behind a hedge.

The next morning i was awoken by furious swearing, an anger that i had never imagined. The landlord screamed at me to get off his property and never darken his soil with my lanky, northern ways. To hear him, you would have assumed i'd shat in his hat or something....

Bastard.

Anyway, i staggered back into town and decided that i would throw away one of my bags as it had become a burden. I was truly exhausted and simply wanted to get home now.

As i was rooting through my stuff, ready to sacrifice my tent, clothes and what-not, what did i find?

..... My bank card.

After all that fucking about, getting lost, getting shouted at, getting kidnapped and wandering around Somerset and Glastonbury in some dehydrated, drug induced fever...... begging for water and shelter.

I had my bank card all along.

Fuck socks.

Length. Longest day of my life.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 14:24, 12 replies)

KING OF TURDS
When you get off the train at Roskilde train station you walk under a little tunnel and join the queue to take one of the quaint looking yellow school buses to the festival grounds a couple of miles further down the road. Sean and I looked like a nice young gay couple, carrying our quite frankly fucking huge bag between us, Sean on one side holding one handle and me on the other. I put the bag down. It was heavy, fucking heavy, heavier than an elephant on a Guiness and Big Mac diet heavy.

“What the fuck have you got in here, mate?” I asked. “I don’t remember it being as heavy as this when I packed it last night.”

Sean stopped, stooped and unzipped the bag: “I put a few extra supplies in this morning.”

I thought on the train various lumps inside the bag were slightly beer-esque can in shape and density. I set about having a fucking pop at the prick for carting a shitload of beer all the way from London to Scandanavia – the home of fucking beer – when I looked down and saw what Sean had actually packed.

I was ever-so-slightly gobsmacked. “You fucking CUNT !!!” I said. “What the FUCK have you brought this stuff for – who are you, Oliva-fucking-Newton-John?”

You see, Sean had managed to cram about thirty cans of Slimfast strawberry shake on top of the camping stuff and few changes of cloths we’d brought. On the bus on the way to the Festival Sean explained he was planning to go the next four days without having a poo. Apparently the thought of shitting somewhere covered in vom, cum, period blood, and shit was a little off putting for him. I pointed out that our local’s bogs were usually like that most Saturday nights, but Sean was adamant. He was not, under any circumstances, going to be dropping any kids off at the pool for the duration. And he came up with the genius plan of surving on beer and Slimfast food replacement shakes so all he’d have to do was: “piss out everything I eat... you know... through me cock...”

Fast forward to day two. Sean’s already downed half his supply of shakes. He’s looking at me enviously as I make love to a bacon butty. I notice his stomach has started to swell up. His complexion looks a little bit, well, pink – like an oversized, sweaty, hairy boiled prawn. But, true to form, Sean has yet to have the urge to take a Richard the Third.

Fast forward to day three. Sean’s finished all his supply and we still have a day of music to go. He says stoically he’ll be ok without any sort of food for a day; he’ll get all his nourishment from hops and barley instead. Sean’s stomach has now bloated up considerably – he looks like Mr Greedy out of the Mr. Men. And his complexion is, well, fucking puce. I point out that surving on beer and Slimfast probably isn’t too good for the digestive system, being a bit of an entusiastic amature physician regarding certain parts of the human anatomy, I suggest Sean should: “Go and have a fucking big dump.” He shakes his head, says he’s alright, and fucks off to see another obscure South American thrash metal band.

Later that day while we’re fucking about, chatting up a few ladies, I decide to do the decent honorable matey thing – I turn to Sean while he’s busy letching and twat him firmly and squarly in his stomach and than run off hooting like a spider monkey. He goes pale. His guts start rumbling like Krakatoa, and he goes running off to find the nearest bogs. A few minutes later he returns, grabs me by the arm and drags me away from the young lady I’m trying my fucking hardest to make a little progress with.

“I can’t go unless you hold the door shut – there isn’t a lock on it,” he says, his stomach still growling. It sounds like a speedway event’s taking place in his colon.

“Oh, for fucks sake!” I say, as I follow him to the line of portaloos.

Sean dives inside, slams the door shut, and demands I remain outside and hold the door shut for him. Fucking muppet...

A sound like a brass band having violent sex with each other eminated from the portaloo as Sean’s colon opened up and a series of spectacular farts escaped his man-flange. I cringed and tried to ignore it. Then, after a while, there was one spectacular THUD - it was as if a motar had exploded, or a labourer had turned over a wheelbarrow full of bricks on a concrete path. It actually made me jump.

“Spanky... SPANKY!!!” Came a weary and yet completely awed voice from inside the portaloo. I wondered for a brief moment if Sean had become delerious from his efforts and been visited by the shimmery, spectral vision of an angel (or possibly Jo Guest wearing nothing but nipple tassles, knowing Sean). Then Sean said something scary, something strange, something ultimately terrifying. Sean said: “Spanky, come and take a look at this...”

But I was intrugied, so I pushed open the door and had a look at the produce of Sean’s labours....

Fuck me....

All I can say is don’t mix beer, slimfast, and jumping up and down for three days without having anything to eat. The turd was HUGE, a massive, MASSIVE sticky gloopy, and roughly cannon ball shaped. It was the king of turds, other turds would’ve bowed down and worshipped this mighty monstrosity – only this one was peculiar, this one was strange beyond belief, this one was pink, bright fucking pink. And – oddly – it gave off the sickly sweet smell of strawberries. It looked like a massive fucking bon bon. And it just sat there, stuck in the pan – too big to fall through the hole. It was a defiant looking bugger.

I actually had to fight the urge to reach out and touch it...

Sean broke the spell, though – “Fuck me, that was hard fucking work,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Was like being buggered by John Holmes, that was.... You fancy going and getting a burger? Don’t reckon I’ll need to shit for a month after that...”

And Sean stalked off on the hunt for food. I just stared...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:15, 13 replies)

Only in England
I was at the Leeds Fest riots in 2005. The Foo Fighters had just headlined the mainstage, and we were making our way back to the campsite totally shattered looking forward to a good nights sleep. As we got to the campsite however, it looked like downtown Baghdad. There were huge fires all over the place, with the sound of gas cannisters blowing up every few minutes. People were knocking down telegraph poles, and destroying tents. As I walked back I spotted the biggest looking fire poking up from behind a hill over in orange camp. I decided that would be where the best view would be and where if anything really interesting was to happen, it would happen.

I seated myself at the top of the hill looking down on the most tribal primitive and yet awesome site I had ever seen. There in the clearing were hundreds of people running and dancing around a huge fire made of what was once the cider tent, carling tent and a telegraph pole. One guy was playing the drums using two tent poles and the upturned kettel drum bins while everyone danced around the fire with glowsticks. There were people juggling fire, practising poi, and generally having a really good time. A Carling truck that was nearby had been broken into and was in the process of being relieved of all its goods. It looked like the apocolypse had come.

And yet...there in the middle of all of this chaos, we rioting Brits had formed an orderly queue to pillage the Carling truck. Even in the middle of a riot we had formed a queue as one guy grabbed 24 pack after 24 pack, and offloaded them to the waiting 'soon to be' drunks
( Furness, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 15:45, 10 replies)

Seeping with The Enemy
2007 - the year Glastonbury organisers got smart: in an effort to beat ticket touting, you had to pre-register with a photo a few months in advance of tickets going on sale.

Whilst preventing touts being able to buy up loads of tickets and sell them on at rates more hideously inflated than Piers Morgan's ego, it also made it more difficult for groups of friends* to buy tickets together.

*More specifically, my group of friends

Basically, you had to enter everyone's registration number separately to get tickets. My mate Jim (who we had stupidly put in charge of obtaining the tickets) somehow managed to only enter my number and then completed the online form, thinking he would be able to go through again and complete it for everyone else separately. The website was swamped. He never got back on.

The group of us were fairly angry with Jim (me less so than the others - I had a ticket, after all). We all tried again a few weeks later when some more tickets were released, but we were unsuccessful again.

I'd never been to Glasto before, and was pretty keen to go, so I set about looking for other friends who had tickets - there had to be someone, surely?

Upon further investigation, most of my mates from work, football and elsewhere who were interested in going Glasto had been similarly unsuccessful with obtaining tickets.

This eventually led to me agreeing to go to the festival with Maria and Suzy, two girls who at best could be described as "friends of friends of friends" (and at worst - and more accurately - could be described as "shrieking, whining fucktards").

I'd met them briefly at a gig earlier in the year, and had been particularly disturbed by their obsession with the band we had gone to see - The Enemy. Maria and Suzy had spent the entire gig clinging onto the front barrier for all their worth, screaming and shrieking all manner of obscene acts that they wished to perform upon the lead singer and drummer respectively (Tom and Liam, I remember being told - a quick Google search doesn't dispute this).

Anyway, fast-forwarding to mid-June, I find myself trapped in a car with said fuckwits, on our way to Somerset. I had imagined that, by this point, the girls' obsession with the Coventrian indie kids may have lessened somewhat - even if it was just to share the love they had to give amongst a few other acts.

Not a chance - they had both turned up in matching "Enemy" hoodies AND t-shirts, and - fuelled on cheap cider - were singing Enemy songs at the tops of their whiny voices. All this despite me having invoked driver's privilege on the stereo, removing any Enemy tracks from the in-car playlist halfway through the third playing of their debut single on the trip down.

Thankfully, when we set up the tents and checked out the playlist, it transpired that The Enemy would be playing on the Friday, therefore I would only have to listen to two days' worth of "I can't wait!" inanity before the gig.

Two days can be a really long time.

Eventually Friday dawned, and the girls were out of the tents at first light, down to the front of the Other stage, ready for their heroes.

I'd like to take this chance to say that I actually don't mind the Enemy's stuff - it's better than a lot of stuff around at the moment - but having it rammed down your throat every waking second does tend to grate after a while.

Anyway, I decided to leave the girls to it and wandered off, returning and catching the end of the set. I couldn't see the girls down at the front, but I was certain that at one point I heard them squeal in unison as one song came to an end.

When I eventually caught up with the girls later, Suzy was walking with a slight limp, but when questioned as to why, she refused to answer.

As the day - and indeed weekend - progressed, the limp got worse, but Suzy still refused to let on as to the cause. Until the last day, that is, when I was confronted by an image that will haunt me to my grave.

Awaking on the Sunday, we had realised that we still had a significant stash of cheap lager and cider with us, and - rather than carting it back to the car - we endeavoured to plough through it, resulting in the majority of the day being a bit blurry.

One moment really stands out in the memory though - towards the end of the evening, Suzy sidled up to me and said that she was a "bit worried" and that she had "something to show me".

We were camped quite close to the Pyramid stage, so we went back to the tents, leaving Maria 'saving our place' in the field.

Having dragged me into the tent, Suzy started wriggling out of her tights. By this point, my alcohol levels probably meant that my blood would only legally allowed to be served in 25ml shots, and all memories of quite how annoying this girl was were slipping out of my mind.

However, I instantly sobered up when she dropped her knickers, and I was confronted with a putrid scab-riddled pus-jungle. I'd like to say that I dealt with the situation in a sophisticated, mature manner, but unfortunately I allowed my natural reactions to get the better of me - the combination of dubious food, cheap alcohol and the sight before me hit home, and I spewed forth the contents of my stomach (namely numerous cans of warm Strongbow, a falafel wrap and an ice-cream).

As it later transpired, Liam from the Enemy had thrown his drumsticks into the crowd from the gig. Suzy had caught one, and then used it to demonstrate exactly what she wanted to do to him.

Apparently, numerous splinters from a bacteria-ridden drumstick can turn septic if left unchecked (and indeed unwashed) in a sweaty, muddy environment for 48 hours.

I'll never eat falafel again.
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:35, 8 replies)

Solid Snake goes to Glastonbury... **LONG STORY ALERT**
Can't take any credit for this one as it's not my story but an excellent tale all the same.....

wednesday 4pm: i'm sitting at home, in glastonbury, at the computer as per usual, and a friend phones me from inside the festival site.. 'alright mate, you in yet? we're all here chilling at our site, just cracked open some beers and on the cider'.. he knew i didn't have a ticket but i'd told him i'd be coming anyway. fuck knows how but i hadn't missed a glastonbury for 13 years, and i wasn't about to for lack of a ticket. it was tradition. i was resolute i was going to make the jump. my original plan was to dress like a ninja head to toe and attempt the feat with a grappling hook, leaving my bags and tent for friends to ferry in for me. at least that way if i did get caught, the gorillas...erm...security guards, may see the humour in the situation and laugh 'with' me as opposed 'at' me while they took turns using me as a human punchbag. i'd tried to acquire tickets but to no avail, (i'd spent the season snowboarding in france and money was abroad with no money when the first wave of tickets were released...by the time i returned to england, the 'locals tickets' reserved for residents of certain postcodes around the festival site had sold out), then tried to get work as i had done in the past but again, nothing came of it. this was my last option. however, after seeing the weather reports of torrential rain throughout the weekend i was having second thoughts. i'd attended enough muddy festivals to last a life time i saw no need to subject myself to another one if it was going to take so much effort. i echoed these thoughts the mate on the end of the phone and it dodn't take much encouragement from his end to make it painfully aware i was fooling myself in thinking no longer really gave a shit. of course i fucking did, summer for me never starts properly without the festival (as was apparant from last years festival break and shitty non summer like weather for the subsequent months!). 'ok man, i'm coming, i'll see you tomorrow'..

7pm: i'm eating my dinner getting restless. it was still sunny and there were tens of thousands of people already getting fucked in fields and here i was in my living room with a tv for company. i finish eating and pack what i can. i had envisioned an operation involving rope ladders, grappling hooks and a vast array of ninja equiptment, but alas, i suffer apathy like a disease, preperations wern't made and the closest i came to finding a grappling hook was a shoelace. my saving grace was the full goretex camo i'd bought years earlier at a discount rate from an army surplus store in an extreme sports festival. the intention then was to have a pimp ass outfit for the eveing which was coupled with a new pair of bright white 'dunlop greenflash' hi tops and some of aviator glasses. most people probably thought i looked like a prick but i enjoyed myself nonetheless. tonight however, the military gear would finally see its intended use. i allowed myself one small rucksack for the entire festival, anything more cumbersome would impede my stealth. i managed two t shirts, one extra pair of jeans, a jumper, socks, boxers and 4 plastic bags i would wear over my socks once the festival got muddy (ninjas don't do wellies). i packed a bottle of water and four twixes for nourishment. now to choose my footwear...anything i took would inevitabley become sacrifice to the pilton mud...i settled on a pair of old nike air max's, surely a worthy choice for any modern day ninja. they would die a noble death.

11pm: i've decided my best route of attack is at the north of the site around about worthy farm. there are access roads leading in and out of the site, alot of traffic so i figure they wouldn't expect people to make the jump there and leave it slightly less fortified. a GPS system wouldn't go amiss at this point but the best i could do was use google and print out a map of pilton which i'd use to navigate the mile or two down from the village to the festival site. obviously i wouldn't be taking the roads so needed something to point me in the right direction as i crossed through fields and gardens in the middle of the night. i start hitching from the corner of a road 7 miles away from the site. a taxi wouldn't be too expensive but if i was going to do this properly, it had to be a pikey effort from the start.

11:45pm: i arrive in pilton and get dropped off at the village shop. i've worked as a steward in the past so know a few things about security and the layout of the site. i know for one that you need a villagers pass to enter the residential area that leads towards the site. i also know what it feels like to be on the wrong side of a 12 hour shift (security work 8 till 8 ) so an early morning entrance when security were more concerned with staying warm and awake than watching the bushes for stalking sas lookalikes, was ideal. this gave me plenty of time. i chanced my luck at one of the guarded roads under the pretence i was going to my girlfriends house on 'bakery road' and was picking up my ticket from there. predictably they were having none of it so i retreated back down the road, melted into the shadows and scaled the first of many fences to come.

12:15am: after making my way to the bottom of the road and finding a hidden dark spot i could use to gain my bearing and asess the direction i should head, i emrged and set forth along the road toward the site. this took me straight past the temporary police station where a policeman was standing outside and was alerted by my approach. i nodded to him and asked how his night was, as if my being there was as normal as his, and was glad for that moment i wasn't wearing full ninja costume. waterproof camouflage is one of the more common sites at a muddy festival, ninja warriors are not...that could quite possibly have set alarm bells ringing. after exchanging brief courtesies, i continued down the road and as i got round the bend decided to break into a hastey jog in case the policeman decided i actually did look a little suspect walking through the village in the dead of night towards the festival site with a rucksack and full camo outfit. i ended up running round a corner straight toward a female steward sitting in a deck chair. i gave her a quick wave and she returned only a baffled look. i ran straight past without looking back and didn't give her so much as a chance to question my destination. as i ran up the road and round the next bend i saw another two security guards walking in front on patrol. taking this as a sign the roads were not the best place to be, i darted into the undergrowth and made my way up an unused, overgrown trail through thick trees and head height nettles and brambles.

12:45am: the climb up the path had made me start to sweat, so reluctantly i shed some clothing which only added to the bulk of my rucksack. out came the map and i made a quick estimation of where i was and where i needed to be. there was a large house with an incredibly bright light shining from a source just out of site and i cautiously took this to be another guarded area. as i crept round the bushes i spotted two figures huddled inside luminous jackets sitting on deck chairs. they were in the forecourt to the building. a road toward the site ran paralell and there were open fields opposite. the entrance to this field was a good 100ft down the road and unfortunately, immediately opposite the entrance to the yard, in full view of the posted security. the only cover offered on aproach was a scrubby two foot high bank of grass and foliage. the entire area was bathed in that dirty white light, highlighting any movement i made above the height of the dividing scrub, like a shadow puppet against the high stone wall guarding my escape into the welcoming darkness of the field. i took off my bag, got down on the floor and started to edge my way forward along the road, staying flush to the cover paying heed to stay low as not to be seen. i reached the entrance to the yard with the gate to the field on the other side of the lane. i waited and watched the security as they muttered with each other between the odd radio crackle, faces buried in hi vis jackets, looking dispiritingly at the floor in front of them. for a good two minutes i watched then, staying as low as possible, sprang up, darted across the road and vaulted the gate, making as little sound as possible.

1:15am: i ran through the long grass behind a hedgerow silhouetted against an illuminated sky. at the end of the hedge only a small wire fence seperated two fields, and as i reached it, the 'big' fence came in to view. hundreds of metres away, a hugely defiant wall of silver stood strong before a vast open field with no cover to speak of. behind it i could see the lights of the festival site sprawled out like a city, and hear the murmer of a hundred thousand happily fucked up people. mounted on one of the many turrets jutting upward from behind the fence, a light that could only be likened to a second sun, turned night in to day, and made stepping out from my comfortable darkness a disconcerting yet necesary decision. about a kilometre away however, across open grass, the cover of trees almost reached the fence. i crept through the fence and started running down the field against another hedgerow, hoping my distance from the fence and camouflage against the bushes would keep me undetected. the shadow i cast on the hedge was like an unwelcome companion i couldn't rid myself of, until once again i was in shadow. infront of me, through the darkness, i could make out a feint sillhouette of a car parked up in the field. my approach grew more cautious and as i came closer i was suddenly blinded by a flashlight. caught off guard i covered my eyes with my sleeve, looked around and noticed i'd reached a garden just over a low stone wall. instictively, i changed direction, leaped over the wall, back into darkness and ran to the hedge which proved too solid to get through at this moment. instead i opted for some overgrown grass and thistles to skulk in (thank fuck people around here don't seem to worry about letting their gardens grow wild). after about 20 seconds, radio's were crackling and beams of light were flickering through the garden. i lay motionless as they scanned overhead, confident i was now invisible to anybody more than two feet from me. after a while they left and i could hear engines out on nearby roads, no doubt looking for a shadowy figure in the bushes. i stayed there for a good while weighing up my next move. the lights in the house were on, i didn't dare venture through the front, and back on to the roads, neither could i continue through the now apparantly guarded field. i went back to the hedge and found i could climb in. it was about 8 feet thick and dense as fuck but i noisily pushed my way through into another garden secluded from the field beyond, and with a bit of hedge hopping, i found my way into well kept garden with an exit that led back in to the field about 30 metres behind the car the security were now obviously posted in. the far end of the field, closer to the big fence, was my destination. the grass was a couple of feet long and and packed with thistles, and as not to be seen, i adopted the same position as earlier, and crawled slowly through the cover until i was at a great enough distance from the car, where i exchanged my crawl for a crouched jog.

2:00am: i hopped over a barbed wire fence on the far side of the field and crouched behind an open gate, in a hedge, and observed the situaton whilst eating two twixes and hydrating myself. the fence was once again illuminated but not as much so, and less than 100 metres from me. still not close enough but i could sit and watch the patrols and observe how frequently they passed, and the direction they came in. just to my left was another lane i'd need to cross to get to the next field and closer to the dense copse i was aiming for. i sat and waited for a good half hour. two security guards idly shuffled past my spot once while i waited, but aside from the landrovers every eight to ten minutes or so, it was relatively quiet. i knew the fence was too high to jump without aid. at this point the only chance i could see of scaling the thing would be to run out in front of one of the patroling landrovers jump on the bonnet, on to the roof and leap across grabbing the fence, hoping the seconds it took them to think 'what the fuck is this guy doing' would be enough for me to be on the roof and making my way over. i figured the fence to be a little over twice the height of the landrover and about a 4 foot horizontal gap from the roof, so the jump would be the easy part, getting on top of the thing before security caught me would be problematic. however, i knew this was a fucking stupid idea, so made a mental note to leave it to chance and see what fate presented.

2:30am: i clambered out of my hiding place and toward the entrance to the field. i looked down the lane from out of the hedge and there was another security guard posted by a building some 40 metres down. i waited for the right moment, then darted across the road to the closed gateway of the next field. i could hear voices coming from beneath a row of trees that ran down the middle of the field. i crawled under the gate and in to the shadows of the hedge row and lay down and watched once again. the voices got up and wandered off further down, so i took my chance and ran to the cover of the trees slipping from one to another, passing a couple of camping stools on my way, until i reached another stone wall which i quickly passed over back in to the safety of a welcome concealed garden.

2:45am: climbing over the next wall, i gingerly stepped down and found my footing slightly unstable. upon closer inspection i couldn't believe my luck. the festival site must be a good 10miles round, and out of all the places and gardens i could choose to make my entry from, i step over a wall, on to not one, but three ladders just lying on the floor waiting for me. the ninja gods were smiling on me that night, i'm certain of it. a renewed sense of confidence instilled, i stalked to the bottom of the overgrown garden to measure my situation. i could hear voices not far off so i moved with caution. just as i got to the bottom of the garden to look over the fence, back into another part of the tree lined field i just moved through, my good friend, darkness, turned round and bit me hard in the ass. in the dim light i didn't make out the piece of sheet metal sat hidden by the fence, that when stepped on, made so much noise, i might as well have shouted 'over here' at the top of my lungs. i ran back to the undergrowth and dived into a deep patch of leaves, grass and brambles, then lay still as alerted voices came close and shone torches in to the garden. radio's crackled, torches continued to shine then a few minutes later a landrover with a mounted floodlight sidled up to the fence and illuminated the whole place. i lay still in my cover and it drove off, voices got quieter...i waited a further 20 minutes until i moved out of my spot. i obviously couldn't make my entry here so i'd have to move the ladder to another spot, closer to the big fence and further from the security. attempting to move the ladder now would no doubt attract more attention, as the night was so calm it was impossible to move through such undergrowth, cracking branches underfoot without being heard, let alone untangle a metal ladder from brambles and move it around unseen whilst suspicions were high. leaving the ladder in place, i waded through waist high brambles toward the other end of the garden and once again asessed the situation. my movement must have been heard once again as more landrovers drove up to the fence and shone lights in to a part of the scrub i wasn't. a vast and well kept garden lay over a fence at this end, that ran down to a point that was only a good 50 metres or so from the big fence. that's where i had to get my newly acquired ladder. i moved back through the brambles with all the caution i could but it wasn't enough as the sound of movement brought radios and flashlights back to life. the security must now be posted just on the other side of the fence listening for me. i quickly re positioned myself in my previous hiding place and covered myself back over with brambles. i could hear on the radio, talk of 'somebody in the bushes' and security answered that they were just in and around the bushes looking for me now. beams of light scanned across my spot, more landrovers made passes and i lay in my spot decideding to eat another twix.

4:20am: i think i'd been lying still for over a full hour now. i could still hear the odd buzz of radio chatter but it had eased off. after a good half hour of footsteps rustling around my area and worried a guy with a torch was going to step right on top of me, they must have assumed after no more noise i'd moved on, but they were still close. then the winds started to pick up and i felt a drop of rain. a smile crept across my face as the rain became heavy and the wind grew restless. this was the exact cover i needed, and would mask the noise it'd make as i moved the ladder through the foliage. the security would also go and seek shelter under the trees, giving me some time and breathing space. i picked up the ladder, and retraced my path through the brambles over to the next garden. once i was over the fence on to the mown grass, movement was easy. i made my way to the far corner which would be the last cover i'd see until i went for the big one.

5:20am: i balanced, perched atop a wooden fence, watching the security guards, concealed by overhanging trees and creeping hedgerow. the ladder was positioned so, that a small portion rested, reaching just over the fence, in a way that when i jumped down, i'd be able to pull the ladder forth, and run, with a minimum amount of fucking about. it'd have to be one swift movement from the moment i jumped out of the hedge, to the moment i was in the festival site. there was no sound coming from the other side of the fence, so i figured i'd succesfully navigated my way to the worthy farm area which is off access to the general public. after more waiting and timing patrol passes, the right time came when security had strolled off up the field and the last landrover passed only a couple of minutes before. i jumped out, grabbed the ladder and ran towards the fence holding it above my head. security were approaching on their radios to call for back up. these guys were only there to keep a look out, it was the ones inside i had to steer clear of... the ladder went up and was almost a perfect height to the top of the fence. i climbed to the top, pulled the ladder up and dropped it down the other side just as the two security guards i had been watching and two i hadn't seen, got to the bottom. i gave them a cheeky wink and dropped down into the site. adrenaline high, i knew i didn't have long until i had to make myself hidden as i was in a part of the site i wasn't meant to be. i ran through what seemed to be a kind of orchard and down toward some buildings, through some gardens then jumped into a bush in a front garden by the side of a small road. only moments later the early morning peace was shattered as the site burst to life with the roar of engines and noise of two way radio's blaring. i covered myself with leaves and got comfortable. for a good half hour it seemed they were going nuts trying to find me. i could hear radio's only feet away asking if they had me yet, and hear the scuffle of people searching the area. i ate another twix and finished my water then waited for the heat to cool.

6:30am the area became peaceful once again and was a good a time as any to make a move. obviously everybody in the area would have been alerted of a bloke in a full camo suit, who'd made the jump, and as i still had to get past another security check point, i couldn't do so like this. i changed my clothes in the bush, swapping my camo garb for the loudest colours i had, then emerged adopting a drunken stagger, as if questioned for a wristband, i would reply with pissed nonsence and continue my stagger as if i was another festival fuck up who didn't know where or who he was. i 'stumbled' down the road toward the last checkpoint and could see tents at last...shuffling passed the security they were obviously too tired to give a shit who i was, and as i walked in to the site amongst the throng of people still doing there thing, i gave myself a big 'fuck yeah' for mission accomplished.


highlights of the festival, aside from playing real life 'metal gear solid' all wednesday night, were '!!!', 'fat freddies drop', 'mr scruff' and 'square pusher' who was so good i actually followed through (although that could be attributed to the dodgy diet and copious amounts of pear cider i'd consumed) and missed a good part of his set sorting it out.

it was fucking muddy though...
(The_Mighty_Spleen, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 12:46, 7 replies)

Bloodstock '08
This is where i saw possibly the saddest thing I have ever seen.

A boy about 16, with soup in his hair and holding a sign saying, and I qoute:

"I will do anything for beer! (Except male sexual favours)"

And then written below in slightly shaky smaller writing :

"Or getting kicked in the nuts again"

Makes me glad I took enough booze with me so I didn't have to resort to that.
(Charlietron Still can't think of anything witty to put here, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 21:41, 4 replies)

fluff
I have nothing to add, having never been to a festival before.

My cat had a kitten last night though.

Which was a surprise.


She had another, but it was stillborn, hairless and freaky-shaped. :(
(dave likes cheese, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 19:02, 5 replies)

Reading Festival, baked as a kite
Time, alcohol, marijuana and the similarly awesome experience of the past four years have dulled my ol’ noggin and I can’t remember which year this occurred at. I want to say 2006.

In what has become a tradition for me at Reading festival, I took some time on the first night to get completely lost around the campsites when I was pissed and befriend some randoms. If you’re there this year and some tall cunt in glasses called Matt sits with you and shoots the shit, give me a beer. Cheers.

Anyway, I sat with some randoms, none of whom I can now remember, and we drank and talked and listened to music and laughed, as you do at Reading. After some time a dreadlocked individual came bearing gifts – Marijuana Cookies, £2 each or £5 for three. He assured me that they were made with über-strong skunk.

“Bollocks,” thought I, handing him a fiver. Aided by beer munchies I devoured the lot and had half of someone else’s. Having said my goodbyes, I left about 30 minutes after this and figured, not feeling high at all, that I’d been conned. Ah well, I’ve lost a fiver on worse things. I met up with my mates and Iain revealed that he, too, had bought and eaten three cookies from this guy. Small world, thought I. “Fancy a burger,” slurred I.

So Iain and I, beers in hand, meandered off, pissed as farts. A glorious row of food vans were available to us and we happened to go before the first to get a burger and chips. Easy enough, no?

Now, the thing is with eating Mary J – it’s very different to a smoke. When you smoke it you get the hit pretty instantly. When you eat it, it takes about an hour or more but it hits about four times harder. Iain and I were unaware of this fact and were really only just starting our experience of illicit herbs – we were lightweights.

Iain attempted his order: “Alright mate. Can I get a… haha, sorry. Can I get a cheeseburger an- hahahaha, hahaha. Fuck, hahaha, sorry, can I get that and hahahahahahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Between gales of laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks, he waved me on to take his place in the queue as he held his sides and struggled to stand through hysterical belly laughs. I was already laughing at this when it struck me.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Can you get me a cheeseburger with chips and HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

For a good few minutes the patient burger vendor attempted to retrieve this information from our drug-addled brains but every time we went to speak, nothing emerged but the laugh. It was the hardest I have ever laughed. Occasionally Iain would calm down and attempt to order for both of us before the sight of me creasing up would set him off again and vice versa.

Eventually we gave up and took a breather. We calmed down and went to the next vendor – no fucking way were we going back to the guy we’d just died in front of.

“Hi mate, I’d like a hot dog and a oh haha fuck hahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

We spent an hour making our way down every single food van with breathers in between. Every time we thought we’d conquered it, the laugh attacked again. Eventually it turned into “hi mat-HAHAHAHAHA, haha, hahahaha just forget it, hahahahaHAHAHAHA!”

When it wore off we each got a giant Yorkshire Pudding. It were mint.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 1:37, 8 replies)

Silly Me
I frequently attend literary festivals where I can indulge my passion for books and reading and when I saw one advertised last year only half an hour on the train from London, I eagerly bought a ticket. On arrival, though, I was desperately disappointed to discover that there were no author talks, let alone the slightest hint of a bookshop. And when I asked a young man who he thought might succeed Doris Lessing as recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature, he told me to "fuck off, weirdo", before adding "do you know what time Metallica are on?".

This year I played it safe and stuck to the Hay-on-Wye festival instead.

Oh, and I've reported the organisers of the so-called "Reading Festival" to trading standards.
(Capo, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:18, 3 replies)

Spooning
The sexy Danish girl in the portacabin handed me my key, directed me to my tent, and hoped I had a good festival. Gotta love the Danes. Great beer, good looking people, and they'd also come up with this idea at Roskilde this year where you paid a little extra on your ticket and they'd give you a tent - saved you having to cart one over to Scandinavia with you. AND they'd already set the fucker up, so once you found your tent in the rows and rows of identical black fuckers, you can chuck your gear inside and go over to the main festival sight to get pissed and do some high quality letching.

I ended up coming back that night on my own at about three am. My mates had either copped off, fallen asleep in a bush somewhere, or staggered back to their own tents a little earlier. I was happy. I was pissed as a newt on preium Danish lager. Of course I was happy.

After a fair bit of confusion I found my tent, clambered inside and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

As is the case at most festivals, I was woken early the next morning by some talentless cunt playing a guitar badly. I opened my eyes and saw hair. Lots of hair. Then I realised I had my arm clamped tightly round something. And then my rock hard morning glory started pulsing like a geiger counter near Chernobyl as my cock realised it was in close proximity to hot bare buttocks.

I was spooning this stranger.

Funny... I didn't remember getting lucky the previous evening...

Infact, any chances of that died in flames and a hail of bullets when I vomitted spectacularly down my t-shirt after one or two too many malibu chasers.

But this girl was - from behind at least - fucking lovely. Long gorgeous blonde hair. A smell of coconut shampoo. Fucking nice one. My hand stroked down her body - I couldn't remember getting any the night before, so I fancied a quick make-up shag for breakfast. She had nice soft skin, a firm tight torso. I breathed in the long locks and moved my hips so my cock nestled nicely in her arse crack. I reached up her stomach, trying to find her boobies so I could have a bit of a feel.

Then my sleep partner for the night stirred but didn't wake, she turned over onto her back.

And that's when my erection died instantly and I very nearly puked and shat myself at the same time.

Now that she was laying on her back I could see her face. And she had a very nice, very long, very dense, bushy blonde beard.

My sexy morning-after shag had somehow turned into a man. Fuck... Fuck? Shit, I hope not...

Trying to get out of a nylon tent with a muthafucker of a hangover while attempting not to make any noise isn't easy, I can tell you. But I managed - just. And then I found my own tent a few pitches down the row. My mate Sean was up outside his own tent and busy smoking.

He saw me: "Who didn't come home last night?" he said with a cheeky little grin. Then he realised I was very pale; something had disturbed me. Deeply disturbed me. "Fuck me, mate - we're in the country of the beautiful people and somehow you still manage to pull the ugliest looking bird in the fucking world, ehh?"

I nod. "Yeah... something like that..."

I saw the bloke I'd slept with later. Had a chat with him - thankfully he was too pissed to remember me, the fella that'd crawled into his tent late at night and hugged him while he slept.

His name was Darren and he was from Wolverhampton.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 23:27, 5 replies)

A long time ago in a century far away...
If your parents were born in the 1930s and never quite "got" The Beatles or The Rolling Stones (because they were already pushing 30 by the time those bands hit the big time) then they were hardly prepared for the tastes and attitudes of their 1960s-born kids.

Being born in the 1960s was a weird journey on its own: cutting your pop teeth on the likes of Slade and T Rex, getting to big school when Mike Oldfield, Led Zep and Pink Floyd were the coolest things on the planet only to find within 2-3 years that this was a load of old shite and we should rush out and buy The Clash and Never Mind the Bollocks...

But formative experiences cut deep and when it was announced that Led Zeppelin were playing Knebworth in 1979 (I was 16), this seemed like the the gig you could not miss, despite a couple of years of punk creating a major cultural divide in the country: either you were for Led Zep or agin 'em. Or somewhere perched on the fence in the middle where you owned Pretty Vacant as a 7" single but still couldn't imagine anything better than the drums cutting in at *that bit* in Stairway to Heaven and the idea that you might even get to see this happen live.

Remember that I was 16.

Context: I was old enough to have a summer job from school holidays, I had saved up enough for a ticket and a train fare.

"Mum, can I go to a concert?"

"Well, I suppose so. Have you saved up enough?"

"Oh yeah. Easily enough."

"Where is this concert?"

"Somewhere called Knebworth. In England."

(Did I mention that I'm from Aberdeen?)

"Who else is going?"

"Hamish and Keith."

Hamish and Keith were nice boys, geeky in their own way and patently trustworthy - much like the teenage me I guess - so this was deemed to be acceptable.

"I suppose so then," she said and we were off.

In more recent years I have asked 30- and 40-something parents from Aberdeen, "Would you let your 16 year old go to, say, Glastonbury?" and they give me that 'don't be absurd, you're not a parent are you' look. A 16 year old? All the way to the south of England? To a rock festival? With drugs and things? Now? No Way At All.

Of course, back in the day my dear old mum had no way of knowing what Led Zep at Knebworth would be like. The last major public cultural event she had attended was either The Corries at His Majesty's Theatre, or Paint Your Wagon (starring Lee Marvin and Clint Eastwood) at the Gaumont cinema.

But why was Knebworth such a big deal? Given the longevity of rock bands now, people kind of take for granted that careers go on for decades. Even when someone has died, you can still pick up their work on iTunes, or for free. Back in 1979, Led Zeppelin had been off the road for a couple of years; the band had endured a few disasters, punk had come along and this was all before the era of CDs or MP3s. If you want to read more, check out the Wikipedia entry...

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Led_Zeppelin

They had formed in 1968, had enjoyed an unprecedented run of success but towards the late 1970s were they washed up? Would a couple of major festival shows in Hertfordshire be a triumphant comeback or a cultural embarrassment? Had punk killed them off? As far as I can remember, they hadn't played gigs in the UK at all for several years; Wikipedia says this has to do with tax exile status - a lot was hanging on the Knebworth shows and these were bound to be big: six figure crowds, crucial for the band...

Into this jamboree stepped three teenage laddies from Aberdeen who had absolutely no idea what they were doing.

The overnight train ride from Aberdeen to London was Enid Blytonesque in its quaintness: three go mad on the sleeper. Drink? Drugs? No - juice and Jacobs Club chocolate biscuits. As far as I recall none of us had been to London before and we had a vague idea that we got off at King's Cross then had to get another train to Stevenage. Internet? Didn't exist. Maps? Hadn't bought any. GPS? LOL. Mobiles? ROFL. We made the connection then got off the train in Stevenage and worked out which way to go by following the crowd, essentially like following a football crowd to the away stadium except these were hippies and we were looking for the grounds of a stately home.

Somewhere we must have stopped to buy lager although just a few as we didn't have heaps of money: cheapo Heineken when it came in bland grey cans. Somewhere in Stevenage I seem to remember two people having a 69er on a bench. I tried not to stare.

The campsite seemed miles although when I look it up on Google maps now it can't have been too much of a schlep. We camped (two tents I think) then settled down, waiting for the gates to open the next morning. Other campers wanted to liven things up by throwing stuff around and a big section of the campsite turned into a two-ended adversarial throwing contest, a bit like a medieval football match. All kinds of crap was being lobbed from one end to the other, mostly just to pass time. Do I remember burning tents? Is that a trick of distant memory? It was pretty chaotic but eventually we tried to get some sleep...

At this point I'll borrow from another account I found on the web:

"There was a huge build up of people outside the entrance on the eve of the concert. Twice they knocked the fence down and eventually a row of police with dogs and Land Rovers was needed on the park side of the fence to hold the tide until the arena staff arrived and they could be let in. Amazingly there were no accidents. It was impossible to visit the campsite that evening as the vast number of fans made it quite scary. At 3 a.m. we gave in and opened the turnstiles. Fans slipped through in the darkness and ran towards the front of the stage for an eighteen hour wait for Led Zeppelin."
Chryssie Lytton Cobold (one of the family that owns Knebworth House)

My own memory of the anarchy was that there seemed to be a lot of shouting, running and movement in the middle of the night; we got out of the tents and decided to go with the flow then promptly lost each other in the dark. After a bit of a wait and a bit of a crush, the entrance was opened, I was separated from my mates, and I was in a field of something like an estimated 210,000 people at Silly O'Clock wearing just a T-shirt and a light sports kagoule, clutching a four pack of Heineken and wondering, "What happens now?" The answer was, wait. Sleeping was hardly possible, I had no one to talk to, searching for my mates seemed impossible, so with the idiot stoicism of a 16 year old I settled down to the long interregnum between getting in (3-4am?) and the first act taking the stage in the early afternoon.

Chas & Dave.

Yes, Chas & Dave.

There were two gigs at Knebworth in August 1979 and we got tickets for the first, so the lineup went: Chas & Dave, Fairport Convention, The New Commander Cody Band, Southside Johnny & The Asbury Dukes, Todd Rundgren, then the headliners.

I can honestly say that all these years later I remember precisely two things about the support acts. Firstly, there was a babe ten or twenty yards behind me dancing away for part of the day wearing a loose top and no bra. She held my attention better than some of the music. Secondly, this was 1979. In the previous couple of years both Saturday Night Fever and Grease had been massive movies and massive in the pop charts. In the middle of the evening, Todd Rundgren took the stage and introducing one song said, "Now we're gonna turn Knebworth into the world's biggest DISCO!!!" to the sound of 210,000 rock fans booing.

And then? Eventually? After the overnight train ride to London, the voyage to Stevenage, the barney at the camp site and getting in a good 18 hours before the main act took the stage, there were Led Zeppelin. And they were bloody good.

Set list for the 4 August show:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knebworth_1979#Set_list

I remember Heartbreaker being the last tune, even now. I don't remember that they prefaced this with In The Evening (from their 'new' album), then Stairway to Heaven, Rock & Roll and Whole Lotta Love.

Some time later I found my tent again, found Hamish and Keith (after nearly 24 hours on my own) and we got a bit of kip before heading back to Stevenage, back to London, then back to Aberdeen. It was a long jaunt.

Nine or ten months later we'd left school and gone our separate ways to uni; we never really saw each other again. Do they read this website? I have my doubts. Also around 14 months after the Knebworth gigs, drummer John Bonham managed to drink himself to death one night, finishing off the Led Zep myth once and for all. He was 32.

No Quo, no mud, no rubbish sex. But that's the experience...
( writerblock ... embedding disabled by request on, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 22:07, 4 replies)

NSDF again
There is always something a little strange about students, and something even stranger about drama students. Stranger still are the technical drama students.

Clad only in the cheapest black's Primark sell, a small workshop jangling on their belts as their steel toe clad feet tramp the corridors of Scarborough's finest educational and entertainment venues, these are the people who build and run the theatres the festival operates in. They arrive two days before any of the actors and leave long after in order to take the stages down and clean up all the residual detritus. Wielding large pieces of metal, shifting files upon piles of deck off one truck and in to venues, they make it all look pretty and sound like harps plucked by angels with only a t-shirt and a couple of venereal diseases as a reward. Oh, and they pay to do this.

So, the tech crew are the strangest of the stranger of the strange.

It's 2am. Everyone sensible is in bed. Not us though. We're in the venue attempting to turn it around. A late finish and problems with the lifting machinery mean we didn't get in to start it until 10. Normally, we can turn around any venue in under an hour providing you have the right team - this wasn't the right team. Tired, hungry and lacking in beer, the night has been full of petty squabbles. Voices have been raised, ajay's have clashed and the less said about where the scaffolding nearly went, the better.

Tea break comes. Along with the usual tea comes a special treat - Jaffa Cakes! Jaffa cakes hold a special reverence with the tech crew. They are the reward for a job well done, a bonding experience as each member shares their own secrets for how to be nibbled away to reveal only the smashing orangey bit. A couple of people toddle off to the toilet, then it's break over and back to work.

Crew is behaving much better, all problems are solved quickly and we finally get the venue set up the way it need's to be. The only thing I have noticed through the night is one of the girls was looking more and more uncomfortable as the night progressed. She had the figurative ants in her pants - constant fiddling, trying to get comfortable.

Everyone is kicked out, a couple of people slip off to the toilets again including aforementioned lady. Doing the final check of the building to make sure everyone is out, I spot an uneaten jaffa cake in the corridor. Bonus! Go to pick it up - ewwww, it's soggy. Some disgusting bastard has licked it and left it for me to find. Quickly throw it in the bin and leave.

Under the streetlights I noticed my fingers were a bit of an odd colour. Gave them a sniff. Slightly orangey, smell a bit of paint and something else... something a bit metallic. Lick fingers. Very metallic. Must be from my tools and the scaff - I've been handling metal poles all day. Then I noticed a small group of girls huddled slightly away, including Ms Uncomfortable, and just caught a snippet of their conversation as I walked by.

"... yeah, thanks for the pad. I don't know why I came on so early. Don't know how I've going to get all the crumbs out of my fanny though."

Look my at fingers. My red fingers. Shiiiiiiit.
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:53, 6 replies)

Tie your shoelaces TIGHT!
At Glastonbury '95 I was right at the front for Oasis and I was being crushed to death. At some point my right trainer was yanked off so I rammed my foot down and pushed my foot back in, it didnt feel right but I was more concerned about not dying under a sea of Oasis fans. When it was all over I staggered into the light of a beer tent and looked down. On my left foot I had my black Nike trainer as expected, but on my right foot I had a white adidas trainer, a LEFT white adidas trainer.

Early the next morning I wandered down to the stage to search for my missing trainer. There were dozens of lost shoes lined up at the front of the stage, even some complete pairs. I couldnt find my missing Nike so tried on some other shoes, none fitted as well on my right foot as the left adidas I had acquired. I spent the next 2 days wandering around with 2 left feet keeping an eye out for someone with 2 right feet.

I don't even like Oasis.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:44, 4 replies)

Glastonbury 2005
The storm. The rain. The flooding.

Everything pailed in comparison upon seeing one man wade through waist deep water, find his tent and dissapear, followed by an excalibur-like rise from the deep, a crate of lager upon his head.

After that nothing got me down all weekend.

For those not there...

( useless_rocker twitter.com/phillipteague, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:33, 10 replies)

The Can Can

Many moons ago, when Reading Rock Festival was still good, I was in the crowd waiting as the band changed over. On stage was a lone technician fiddling with a bank of amps.

Then, out of the middle of the crowd someone threw a can at the tech.

It tumbled lazily over the heads of the crowd in a big arc and fell towards the lone technician. He glanced up.

The can was heading down towards him and was going to miss him by a gnats chuff. Just before it was about to hit the ground, the tech deftly backheeled it and it spun across the stage.

The crowd went wild.

They cheered, they clapped and then..........

buried the flash bastard under 10 000 cans.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 3:39, 1 reply)

Longdrop toilets
Leeds Festival, a few years ago

friday morning, suffering an epic hangover and in need of a crap, I decide to brave the dreaded longdrops.

Open the door encountering the most foulest smells known to man-even the thought of it to this day makes me gag. so I drop my pants and about to park my arse (or hover) when suddenly...

'POP UP PIRATE!!!'

I leapt up in fear and turned round to find a man literally poking his head out the hole wearing a snorkel and mask, I never ran so fast.

sometimes I wonder, why would anyone want to wade in excrement? or how the hell he actually managed to get in there?
(Lord Chode, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 23:40, 5 replies)

Hero
At a rainsoaked Leeds Festival years ago I saw a bloke pick up a couple of pints at a beer stall they had set up at the crest of a hill. The fella turned sharply in the sodden earth, took a resolute step forward, somehow managed to plant one foot on a discarded plastic plate, then the second foot on another discarded plate, then effectively and unintentionaly ski all the way down the hill until he landed in a crumpled and soggy heap at the bottom.

"WAAAA - HAAAAAAYYYY !!!" Came the cries from the assembled crowd.

The fella stood up and continued on his way without a word. And he managed, somehow, not to spill a single fucking drop of beer.

Now, that man's a hero in my book.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 16:05, 3 replies)

In order to have the 'festival experience' without the 'festival cost'
I listened to a live CD of my favourite band while living in a refugee camp.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 6:26, 4 replies)

Long time listener...
The first time I ever went to a festival was Reading, and I was 17 or thereabouts. I was supposed to be camping with my friends, but I got to the train station and saw some girls with tents, got chatting... and ended up staying with them. (And then I ended up spending half the weekend with a guy called Sharky. Which was great, because my name is George.)

But the story's not about that. I was walking down a walkway past a group of guys when they shout my name. Not knowing any of them from Adam, I was curious enough to ask them what was up. Turns uot they were shouting "jokes!". So I stand there, listening to their jokes, as everyone tries to outdo each other, which naturally leads to a long string of dead baby jokes. Eventually, they press me for a joke, but : fuck! my mind is blank. Can't think of a thing. So I demur, and others tell some jokes, and I rack my brains for something.

And then I remember it. The joke that Fanny tells to Mictlantecuhtli in The Invisibles. And eventually it comes back to me, but, well, I'm still a little shy. But it's coaxed out of me:

What's purple and stiff and makes women squeal?
Cot death babies!

And that goes down a treat. So well, in fact, that it seems to have been crowned the best of the lot. But it carries on, only now whenever someone new joins the circle, I am asked to repeat my joke. Eventually this becomes more and more frequent. The crowd has grown to above 50 people, at least. After a half-hour of this, I am getting increasingly bored, but, y'know, obviously enjoying the attention (and milking it by showing nothing but reluctance). Still, it'd been going on for a while, so I attempt to leave. They wouldn't let me. They joke is (apparently) too good.

So I just make a run for it. I get so far before anyone can respond, and soon am scampering away between the tents, nearly killing myself on guyropes. Still, I'm a pretty obvious target, so I play commando: ducking underneath the tents, trying to keep tabs on my pursuers. Eventually, I get away.

So this is a pretty good story, so when I am walking nearby with a friend of (an ex of) mine a few hours later, I make the mistake of telling them. And, maybe to test it, maybe just to be a dick, they decide to yell "GEORGE IS HERE!" Sod. So naturally the crowd notices me. And recaptures me. And it turns out that my disappearance was what was needed to elevate me from a boy with a decent joke into a prophet. The second coming of Jesus. "George". After I left, they continued searching. Then one of them got the idea that I was beneath the ground. So they'd started to dig for me with their bare hands. They showed me their muddy hands. Newcomers were perplexed, so I was asked to tell the joke again. By this point there were too many of them for me to escape: the crowd surrounded me about 3 thick in every direction. Eventually (after many tellings of the joke) we began to make a slow tour of Brown campsite. With increasing frequency, they would all shush, quiet down, and ask me to tell the joke. So I would and then they'd all get excited, and yell "COT DEATH BABIES!". They'd ask me questions, using "George" like it was a title. I just asked why they wouldn't let me go, what I had done to deserve this, would insist endlessly that I was nobody special, that I had just told a joke about a dead baby and a mother's grief. But that just egged them on further. Someone eventually put a candle in my hand, which I would hoist aloft while yelling "COT DEATH BABIES". The joke had lost all humour by this point: It was nothing more than a rallying call. Before I'd say it (which was approximately every 5 steps) everyone would shush, and crouch, leaving me the single man standing out of a crowd of around (by now) 200 people. And then I'd cry "COT DEATH BABIES!" and everyone would jump up and yell it with me and get excited and then we'd move on.

Some people didn't like my rule. One man jealous of the attention, threw a can of beer at my head. I wasn't too worried, because he missed: and fuck, I had 200 people around me to protect me. I had to specifically tell a few of my followers not to beat him up. Eventually a girl tried to get in on the action. She tried to declare herself "High Priestess". I went along with it as much as I could: I wanted to transfer this huge crowd onto her and escape. But she was too power hungry: the crowd would not accept her. I considered the power I had: Fuck, I had followers. I had a fucking cult, following me round, keeping me prisoner. But what could you ask for? They gave me some beer... I could only imagine getting some with a girl, 200 people surrounding the tent, begging for me to yell "COT DEATH BABIES!" I knew it couldn't last. Besides: I was only holding onto it by means of saying I hated it. I had power, but there was not a thing I could use it for.

(Oh, a bit after High Priestess, everything kinda dissolved. But I met a few of the guys who originally were involved at Santacon that year. The moment they saw me they dropped to their knees and cried "George!". I told them it was a time for Santa, and they kept telling me how weird it was to be drinking beer and talking to George like he was a normal person. Weirdly, they were also really apologetic)
(v21, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 4:47, 1 reply)

Antifestival
I attended an event in July of 2006 that would make most b3tan's blood turn to powder in horror.

It should have been ace. All the right boxes were ticked: Knebworth. The Who. Hottest day of the year. Best of all, it was not only free but I was being paid to go.

It was not ace.

This was no festival. It was a corporate trade show for the hedge fund industry, organised as a chance for everyone involved to come together, sell eachother their services and forge high-value-add synergistic relationships in a relaxed atmosphere of friendly co-opetition. The twist was the festival theme, the highlight being The Who playing later in the evening.

The day started well enough. Hundreds of monumentally overpaid hedge fund managers parked their Aston Martins on the lawn. Bankers and brokers left their Ferraris alongside. I, mere pond scum of a junior software vendor monkey, carefully attached crook-lock on my girlfriend's 15 year old Fiesta. We set up our company tent as the sun started to get hot and amused ourselves trying to flirt with the models in sundresses that the bigger companies had hired.

As the day wore on a growing sense of just what we were involved in was nagging at me. My inner 18 year old was in tears. Everything about the event makes me cringe. The refreshment stand in the field called the "Nine Bar". The Bentley dealer who'd turned up to raffle off a couple of cars for £1,000 a ticket. The old VW campers painted up in what appeared to be psychadelic patterns but on closer inspection turned out to be highly stylised logos of major banks. I was in danger of drowning in pure wank. I was getting sunburned at an event called, I can barely write this now, HedgeStock.

I did my job manning our stand. When 5pm rolled on I broke out the beers and got ready to watch The Who with my fortunately very cool colleagues. They played a brilliant, brilliant set that lasted well over two hours. It was loud, tight, we were pissed and right at the front, really getting into it and just loving watching an incredible band at a beautiful venue outside on a summer's evening. You can't beat it. Yet, when I turned around to take in the atmosphere, I was bought thudding back to earth. Here was a crowd of about a thousand people, with maybe twenty of us singing along and dancing like loons at the front. Everyone else, to a man, was either on the phone or emailing on their Blackberries. I saw one chap in a polo shirt and pressed chinos with a sunhat (bank logo'ed, of course) with his arms folded and a severe expression on his face, just standing there - during Baba O'Reilly!

Roger Daltrey summed it up perfectly about three songs in. Clearly underwhelmed by what must have been the worst crowd he has ever played in front of in his entire career - a crowd so bad it made the Jazz Oddessey audience look like whizzed up moshpit nutters - he shook his head sadly and said into the microphone in a bemused voice, "Who the fuck are you?"
( Scrumper, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:57, 6 replies)

RIGHT SAID FRED, ST. JOHN'S AMBULANCE & A NASTY HEAD INJURY
One time at the Leeds Festival years ago (when Pearl Jam headlined, fucked if I remember the year; can barely remember my own surname most of the time), I was stood round on bag guarding duty; essentially my mates had all fucked off in the pursuit of a) beer, b) a poo, c) a wee, d) food, or – and this was stretching it a bit on account of them all being uglier than a troop of chimpanzees who’d been involved in a particularly nasty car crash involving fire – e) some sweet hot snatch action.

I was getting pissed off. I’d been stood round for about half an hour looking like an Essex bird in Rumours on handbag guarding duty. (Ever tried looking mean and moody when you’re essentially guarding a few ruck sacks full of baby wipes, bottles of water, KP crisps, a shitload of those little tubs of ketcup we’d nicked from McDonalds to help flavour the utter shite food they sold, and a couple of packets of jammy dodgers?) Just not fucking possible...

To make matters worse the mighty Pearl Jam were about to come out on stage. There was an air of awed silence... And instead of twatting my way to the front to dance about like a spectacular twat, I’m stuck at the back, looking like a single parent guarding the broods gear as they fuck off and have some fun.

Then there’s a surge behind me as the guitar techs come out on stage and start twaning about with Jeff Aments bass. I get knocked clean off my feet by the big fucker behind me and land heavily on the bags. My head actually disappeared inside one of the open bags for a few seconds. Fuck me. I was pissed off. This man mountain reaches out an arm, apologies for inadvertently knocking a skinny streak of piss like myself off his feet like he was swatting a teeny tiny fly, and then he stops dead and looks scared. “You ok?” He says. I start mumbling something then he says: “You’ve hit you’re head, mate. You’re bleeding like FUCK!!!”

I reach up and feel a wetness caked in my hair, feel something sticky dribble down my forehead and over the bridge of my nose. There’s shitloads of claret pouring out of me. Oh, fucking MARVELLOUS!!! Then, a little of my blood reaches my lips and trickles inside. It’s not blood. It’s tomato sauce – several of the vast quantities of the pesky little containers packed inside the open ruck sack belonging to one of my mate’s have burst on impact and splattered me.

“You sure you’re ok, mate?” said the big fucker who’d accidentally knocked me off my feet.

Now, I was pissed off like a muthafucka on so many different levels. Don’t know why I did it, but I just snapped back: “Do I fucking look, OK? I’m bleeding like a cunt here!”

With that the big dude lifts me up and carts me off, another one of his mates (even bigger and harder looking than the first fella), comes and holds me up from the other side, he says: “Don’t worry about you’re bags. A few of our group’ll look after them. We need to get you over to St. John’s Ambulance. You look fucking awful, mate.”

I started to protest, to say I was ok, but it wasn’t any good. The two fellas literally carried me to the first aid tent. They explained what had happened to the old lady in the uniform; that I’d hit my head and was proabably concussed, and what with the blood they thought it best to get me here as quickly as possible.

“Thanks, lads,” I said. “You can leave me to it now. I’ll be fine from here,” I said, silently shitting myself.

“Nah, mate – wouldn’t dream of it. We’re gonna make sure you’re ok first.”

I was put onto an examination bench. Another St John’s Ambulance volunteer put on a pair of rubber gloves and started poking round on my scalp: “Does this hurt?” They said sternly.

“Erm... yes....?” I replied meekly, my two saviours standing just to one side, arms crossed, looking concerned. It was then I got a really good look at them. They looked like the two dudes out of Right Said Fred, only on more steroids and not at all camp. They were, to put it short, fucking hard. I gulped and felt a bit sick.

Then the ambulance person said: “Can’t find any wound.... hmmmm... funny....” then, slowly, they lifted a glove hand, smeared in red, to their nostrils and took a plaintiff sniff. After a short pause the kindly looking lady said: “This is tomato ketchup.”

I shrugged, “Is it? Erm.... Are you sure?”

The two lads, my saviours, the good samaritans, looked a bit confused. Then one of them said simply: “You fucking cunt,” and they left.

And I watched Pearl Jam from the very edge of the crowd, keeping one eye out for the hard looking lads, and another out for one of my chimp mates – so I could explain why I’d rather kill my own mother than go back and retreive our bags from where we’d left them.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 12:21, 9 replies)

Good times!
Phoenix Festival, mid 90s.

This was the year that;

1. My mate got food poisoning (I told him the sausages were dodgy, would he listen?)

2. We camped near these guys who kept us entertained with the catch-phrase “Skin-up Graham” all weekend.

3. The bloke in the next tent had the “best dope known to mankind” (turned out it was a legal high).

4. One of the girls had her bag pinched out of their tent, turns out she was sensible and it only had clothes in, so I suggested she tried lost property to see if it had been ditched when the thieving little bastards realized they’d pinched nothing of value. She returned an hour later, big smile, holding the bag aloft in victory. It was short lived, they’d stolen all her knickers!


Random festival memories

A man naked except for a fur rug tied to his back with string, carrying a Stop Children Crossing Lollipop.

Going for a piss in the woods at Donington Monsters of Rock, to be greeted by a young lass dropping her strides and relieving herself in front of me. When I jokingly pointed out this was the gents area, she muttered something in German, at least I think it was German as she had a major bush going on.

My first smell of dope, down the front at Donington 1986, stood next to some Hells Angels, this was closely followed by my first smell of Hells Angels piss as one particularly hairy biker deposited a few litres of secondhand cider over the people in front of him. These lucky people even thanked him for the gift.

Not being allowed to take plastic bottles of beer in, so watching people trying to drink three litres of cheap bitter in double quick time, so as not to miss Warlock. I doubt they remembered much about them.

Being called to toilets to see the biggest turd in the history of the human race. The Guinness Book of Records would later be in attendance.

Talking to a lad who was going to be in trouble when he got home, his Mum had seen him on the TV coverage with “Cunt” written on his forehead in marker pen.

Listening to a bloke describing how he’d just gone down on a girl, this being the third night of the festival.


And finally…

It was at Donington Monsters of Rock in the late 80s where a group of my mates were camping over night. As was the way with this one day events, the camp site was a scene from hell, with wall to wall lager and vomit, which was one of the reasons I never stayed there over night. Anyway the story goes that Kev; a skinny thick bass player, long black greasy hair, skin of alabaster due to never seeing the sun and possessor of the dumbest monotone voice, actually manages to land a girlfriend and not only that gets her to come to the gig. After a few beers around the camp fire, she decides it's time to retire to the tent for some action, drags him off to much cheering from his mates. There is very little privacy to be had in a tent, especially when everyone you are camping with sneaks up and stands next to it. Noises ensue and then the GF's voice can be heard.
"Call me a bitch!"
"Eh?" (Imagine in the dumb monotone voice.)
"Go on, and a slut too."
"Why?"
"Because I like it when you talk dirty to me."
"Do I have to?"
"Yes, go on."
Silence.
"Come on!"
"I can't, I don't like those words."
The silence is broken by one of his mates who shouts at the top of his voice,
"YOU'RE A FUCKING BITCH, A SLUT, NOW SUCK MY COCK!"
She was not happy!
(Markthrone, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 22:00, 1 reply)

Bearpookie reminds me
Glastonbury in the early and mid-nineties, whilst getting over the fence was still de riguer and it wasn't entirely populated by arseholes and mud ... the police had an interesting problem, they couldn't be seen to condone drug use but they didn't want to be seen as heavy-handed either, and were mostly after serious dealers. Cue some bright spark going "Lads, I've got an idea..."

two police transits. all the doors and windows open. Four cops with supersoakers. "Smoking a fat one there, sir? Oh, it seems to have gone out and, oddly, you're all wet now"

Work of genius. The facial expressions of pissed-off crusties realising there was exactly fuck all they could do was truly wonderful. Made my day the first time I saw it.
( the mighty badger Aphrodite, on a bar stool, by your side, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 10:27, 3 replies)

Allow me to make your mind up
It was at Reading 2002 when I had my epiphany. Up to that point I had avoided festivals for years based on the misguided opinion that they were crap. So, for anyone still pondering whether or not to go this year, I will describe the moment when I realised just how wrong I had been.

The first day had been enjoyable enough but I’d spent a large part of it too drunk to properly enjoy Pulp, The Strokes and Mercury Rev, three of my favourite bands at the time. Heading to the food vans around lunchtime, I noticed some wag had cobbled together an unconvincing 'bomb' out of old aerosol cans, wires, an alarm clock and a fuckload of duct tape. It had been placed conspicuously at the base of one of the fire towers, complete with a sign which read 'BOMB', garnished with a comical arrow pointing down at the feeble contraption.

On the way back, my none-too-tasty burger was interrupted by sirens blaring. The shambling crowd unzipped in a wave, allowing a red jeep to speed past in the opposite direction to the mass-migration of unwashed rock nerds. As it zoomed by, a creature we now presume to be some kind of bearded proto-human pounced from behind a row of tents. He was covered in mud and dressed in a small t-shirt.

Only a t-shirt...

The curious being opened its gnarled mouth, producing a high-pitched scream and grabbed the trailer bar at the back of the moving jeep in order to be dragged along the slatted metal walkway at high speed. A thin layer of fabric on his upper body was all that separated him from a likely cheese-grater finale. Still wailing like a naked banshee, this interesting spectacle continued all the way to the fire tower amid a phalanx of rapidly-approaching ‘bomb squad’ vehicles.

As the jeep slowed down, the nutter sprang to his feet and span round to reveal an absence of frontal T-shirt, an abundance of bruised and bloodied genitals and a mad, frightening grin. With a final flourish and a hearty whoop, he skipped towards the 'bomb', snatched it up and dived into the nearest row of tents to the amusement and collective bewilderment of his audience.

That set us up nicely for the rest of the day.

I forget exactly which gigs we watched during the daytime, but it included a little-known new band called The Libertines, who drew a small crowd of about 50 people on one of the smaller stages. Pete Doherty looked reasonably healthy back then, as I recall. A bit later, a group came on stage to announce "This is the moment you have been waiting for; when we finish you may as well go home... we're THE HIVES". Then they actually backed up their astonishing arrogance with a performance to justify it. I was suitably impressed.

As we left the main stage, a paper cup fight broke out between the front and the back of the crowd; just two small groups tossing litter at each other, no big deal. By the time we returned from a much-needed piss against one of the boundary walls, this had escalated into a full-blown war. I will never forget the sight of *thousands* of half-filled paper cups of piss-weak lager (and lager-based piss) sailing over my head as I ran the gauntlet of no-man's land right through the middle of the conflict to be reunited with my mates. The missiles stopped as the bands returned to the stage, and a truce was declared as we all stood ready to watch the next acts.

Darkness fell and small fires fuelled by debris sprang up around us while Ash finished up their brilliant set. As we had time to kill before the headline acts, I happily entertained a cheeky handjob from my girlfriend with people milling all around us, too close to see what was going on right at their feet. I shot my bolt at about the same moment all the lights went out on the stage and around the arena, but I’m pretty sure the two events were not related. I quietly contemplated my shame while bathed in the glow of the fires and the food stalls, my eyes adjusting to the darkness left by the lack of fierce stage lighting.

The crowd grew impatient. It appeared to be some kind of technical problem, but just as the chants grew to a crescendo, a spotlight came on to expose a piano at one side of the stage, and Matt Bellamy of Muse sitting at its helm. A cheer went up but it was quelled in seconds as he started to play. I’d never heard of Muse at the time, but like everyone else, I was captivated immediately.

As far as I know, no videos exist of this particular performance, but to set the scene, I recommend you watch the first couple of minutes of this clip (from Glastonbury 2004) before/while you read the next bit. This is what it is like to see Muse at a festival.

The opening section of ‘New Born’ is a haunting piece of solo piano. It was surreal to see what only moments earlier had been a rowdy, drunken orgy giving its complete attention to one man, on what appeared to be an otherwise dark and empty stage. As the final note of the piano section rang out in eerie sustain, Matt leapt to his feet and dashed across the stage carrying his guitar, a spotlight chasing him to the other side. The stage lights pulsed anxiously, stirring the crowd to cheer him on as he shredded that brutal distortion guitar riff, a clear signal that it was all about to kick off. As he reached the climax of his guitar solo and hit the final chord, ALL the lights burst on like a supernova in sync with an explosion of fireworks to reveal the rest of the band. It remains the greatest opening to a set I’ve ever seen; everyone went absolutely cunting fuck-mental.

I was entranced in an instant, realising with shocking clarity exactly what I’d been missing for so long. Foo Fighters finished up an amazing night and cemented my opinion that music festivals, despite the food, the weather and the toilets, are something that everyone needs to experience. Don’t give it a second thought.
( chart cat has an itch, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 6:08, 7 replies)

Some people wonder
Why there aren't more small music festivals around the place in summer. My dad used to help organize one, so I know why.

They are an Unbelievable. Amount. Of. Work.

The festival he used to be involved with was just a small, local affair - held in a local park, 2000 person maximum capacity with headliners who had been reasonably big in 80s. The site was perhaps three acres on a good day.

It cost £60,000 - £70,000 to put on.

There is no way that ticket sales will cover this. So they had to get sponsorship. Major, major sponsorship. Normally around £50,000 worth. When you live in rural Suffolk, this is incredibly hard. It becomes even harder to keep it going year after year.

Then there are the artists to book - you have to work out touring schedules, costs, travel expenses, VIP reception (which, take it from me, is a MASSIVE part of the whole operation. When you're working at full stretch already and Geno Washington turns up with 20 extra people you're not prepared for, you can't afford to piss him off), security fencing, security guards, overnight security guards, helpers, ticket prices and sales, promotion... The whole lot. My dad used to be in charge of sponsorship and ticket sales and he said he did the work of five men.

Then there's the council to get past. The amount of red tape they can throw your way is simply unbelievable. They demanded £2000 for the use of the park for two days (they never have any charge for its use the rest of the year), then they demanded that after the festival we should hire a road roller to flatten out all the bumps they imagined we would leave, and then they demanded another £2000 for the on-site inspection.

Oh yes. The on-site inspection and permit to hold the festival in the first place. Which can only be granted, you've guessed it, on the day of the festival. If there's anything wrong, the festival is delayed (never mind the bands set up on stage and the several hundred punters queuing outside the gates - you have to fix it).

An example of this pedantry comes in the form of the toilet trouble we had one year. The park had some small toilets but not sufficient for 2000 people, so we had to hire portaloos. It turned out, ten minutes before we were due to open at noon, that the inspector wasn't happy with the step up to the loos. It was too far away from the cubicles themselves, and people would have to step over a whole six inches of air to get to them. So we got out the sledgehammers. Turned out the thing was stuck, but fifteen minutes were wasted finding that out. We had to close down that row of portaloos and make the others unisex - something that caused a hell of a lot of trouble later that day when people started getting a few beers inside them.

Then, of course, there are the artists. When you've been big in the 80s, you expect to be treated like you still are. And God help you if you don't give them what they want. As mentioned above, Geno Washington was a particular problem. He once stopped his set and spent twenty minutes arguing with the sound crew (who, of course, always set up their ENORMOUS tent in the most infuriatingly inconvenient place) about why he couldn't have more volume on the foldback speakers - the ones at the front of the stage that let him hear what he sounds like. The answer was that he was a deaf old bugger and the level he wanted was causing horrendous feedback. But, of course, he wouldn't take that. Not that we put it in those words.

Assuming you deal with all the other problems, you've still got to deal with the organising committee itself, no two members of which are on the same wavelength. A case in point was the man in charge of booking the bands: PC.

Normally he did well - we had The Commitments, Showaddywaddy, Osibisa, Edwin Starr, Geno Washington and so on. Showaddywaddy were awful, the Commitments were brilliant - especially from backstage and feet away from the lead singer. But occasionally, PC would go off on a tangent. Like the time he booked King Prawn.

Sleepy little towns in the heart of rural Suffolk do not deal well with a lead singer shouting "This one's for all the kids out there!" (there were none) before launching into a song apparently called "I wanna smoke some shit". That was certainly the chorus. Apparently he'd wanted "to shake people up a bit". Well done PC, well done.

Then there's the clearup afterwards. You never truly appreciate how messy people are until you clean up after a festival. It takes all day if you're lucky.


The festival stopped a few years ago due to lack of sponsorship. I still get people asking me why it stopped. I list everything I've listed above, but it never quite seems to sink in.

It was an enjoyable few years and I miss the festival, but I don't think it'll be back...
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:35, 10 replies)

Hot Water...
First B3ta story, please be gentle..

I'd always fancied attending these huge events, the appeal of getting the chance to see massive bands, soak up the atmosphere with thousands of other like-minded people, and I'd even risk the opportunity of tasting the wares of the greasy burger sellers.

The thought of hitch-hiking through back roads, using nothing but the dulled sound of huge PA systems as our only means of navigation, and the Ray Mears-esque technique of finding water by following the herds of backpackers, hooded partygoers and hippies wearing tie-dyed tights got the better of me when I suggested to the missus that I really fancied getting tickets to see a Festival.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks, and with the attitude of an excited puppy, the missus comes bounding into the front room, clutching some pieces of paper, screaming 'Suprise' - I got these for you, hope you like them!!

So there they were, my golden tickets, I rejoiced as I was about to bear witness to the popping of my festival cherry, thoughts of a day trip to Millets flooded my mind, and a massive order of the ever popular toiletries, noodles and other substances not seen on GMTV were swiftly purchased.

A couple more weeks later, stuffed in the back of my mates Fiat Panda like sardines, sandwiched between rucksacks and them wierd metal tins with the folding handles, we're heading down the motorway, tape player on full blast (did'nt have the luxury of an IPod or CD player) we eventually turn up to what seemed to be a colossal village, surrounded by security, queues of traffic, coaches, articulated lorries and people wearing the most bizarre outfits that appeared to have been concoted by a seriously tripping Gok Wan.

So we're parked up, we've queued up and the all too familiar booming of the music, sound checks and people with whistles and horns is making our ears tingle with excitement, we've got through the security checks, sniffer dogs and avoided the local scamps trying to trade us dodgy wristbands, when we get to some massive security gorilla covered in ID tags, who demands to see our tickets, and as a nice bloke as I am, I eagerly hand them over..

"Come with me sir" he bellows, and ushers me to some small tent in a corner...

I'm thinking "What the fuck?, I'm not carrying anything dodgy, it's all stuffed in the missus's bra - they'll NEVER search there"

Oh no, it was'nt drugs he was after - upon opening the tent, it dawned on me what was happening, as there in front of me was a small table, with a red hat on it, covering what looked like a cordless kettle.

It turns out that in her eagerness, the missus had treated me to tickets to see a 'Fez-Tefal' and I'd fallen victim to another pun.

Length? - About a year of lurking...
(danniekavanagh did nothing constructive on, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 10:16, 6 replies)

Glastonbury 2008
Me and my ex-girlfriend are not your standard issue festival types. We're much more at home in clubs than tents, and more into the narcotic side of things than the boozy. Having said that, when I recieved a phone call from my Carlsberg Rep, asking if I'd like two tickets to go to Glastonbury for free, I jumped at it.

My parents live relatively close to Glastonbury, so we could use there as a base, get a good nights kip on the Thursday and then get down early Friday and get pitched. Now, my ex has absolutely no camping experience whatsoever, and also has an amazing ability to be late for absolutely everything, so I shouldn't have too surprised that when we eventually got to Glastonbury, everyone else had been there ages, my car was parked in the arse end of nowhere, and all the camping on the side of the festival I was parked nearest to was taken, so cue the trek carrying everything and eventually finding the shittest camping spot ever, a good 30 minutes from the gate we'd come into, but we were in and set.

However, as we'd got there late and I was desperate to find a) beer and b) food, I didn't really spend much time studying our surroundings. I'd made note of the big orange flag on the gazebo next to us and a few other notable things to navigate by, and so had been able to find the missus after a quick loo break and beer hunt.

Anyways, we got sorted and duly toddled off to go and see some bands and general do the festival 'thing'. Headed off to The Glade as I'd been told there was a Carlsberg area there. Sure enough, I find out about a hidden door down the side of a tent that leads us into a VIP type area, with a free bar and a free BBQ. Things are looking up!

So, laden with booze and starting to enjoy ourselves we head off into the night. Feeling quite happy and chilled out we decide it's time for a spot of MDMA action, which was duly sorted. The night carries on. As the night pans out, we move from the Class A action onto another powder more generally known as a Horse Tranquiliser. Now, we're both experienced clubbers, and this is not our first time we've taken K, so no problems there.

We have a good night and we eventually head back to the tent and all is good. We find out way back no problems and we aim to try and get some sleep ready for the following days shenanigans. As we were sleeping on rather bumpy ground, and neither of us were feeling upto sexeh tiem, we decide to have a slightly bigger line of the previouslyly mentioned Tranquiliser. Again no problems there.

Unfortunately for me, this is where it starts to go wrong.

Having just settled in for the night and starting to feel comfy, I became aware of the need for the free beer I'd drunk early to be released from the bladder. Upon mentioning this to the missus, and saying "Bollocks to it, I'll just go by the side of the tent", I am then told in no uncertain terms "No you fucking well will not, you'll at least go to the bush" Brilliant....

So getting redressed in the rather small tent was achieved, wellies were put on, headtorch was donned so as to the tents in front of me.
Figured out which way the nearest bush was and struck out. Now, for those of you who aren't silly enough to inhale prescriptions normally reserved for the four legged species out there, Ket has a very specific effect on the section of your brain that deals with depth perception. Namely, it stops it working properly, but I was used to this, and so set off. I managed to avoid the guy ropes of all the tents with ease, I didn't stumble or fall on a single tent. I did however forgot one small problem.

In a field full of tents, you cannot walk in a straight line, instead you meander back and forth whilst heading in a general direction. So you fix on where you're going and head for it.....

Unless it's dark...
And you've taken Ket...
And you've taken your contact lenses out to go sleep...
So you can literally only see six foot in front of you.

After ten minutes of walking probably around the same four tents I ended up fixing on a wierd blurry light source and sort of aiming for it... This porved fairly succesful for a while, but it turned out the light source was not the toilet block. Oh know. Just a random light on a post. Great. Eventually after 30 or so minutes of wandering around, I heard what sounded like nice peoples voices. As it happens, they were... I explained what had happened, and the nice lady said that she would help me try and find my tent. I didn't have my mobile, so she took my girlfriends number and rang it. I'll never forget the words she then spoke:
"Hi, have you lost your boyfriend?.... Well yeah I've found him... Yeah he's lost bless him.... I'll try and bring him back to you.. okay then..." So, I tehn describe where our tent was near (the gazebo from before etc) and am then lend hand in hand by this lady towards my tent, where I am duly reunited with my girlfriend. And again, I stand there as they discuss my situation, and my girlfriend thanks the nice lady for bringing me back. I just stood there like a 3 year old who's been found in the frozen section at Asda, and has been united with Mummy.

The really comical thing is that I'm 6'3" and both nice lady and my girlfriend are about 5' 4"... Oh, and I was 26 at the time.

But, if you were that nice lady at Glasto who found ame and returned me.. Cheers!

Apologies for length, but it's quiet at work and I'm bored.
( Ril3y is a brit abroad.. bring on the Stella / Asahi, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 1:04, 2 replies)

Reading '95
I found a sign written on a piece of card. It said:

"Dear Police,
Please can you take this guy away because I think he might actually be dead and its really starting to freak me out. Thanks!"

Apologies for length.
(DownhillGardener no-one does it like that anymore, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 19:11, 2 replies)

The foot
We Went to Reading festival in 2007 with a guy that had lived next door to me for years who was a bit green when it came to drugs. This was to be his baptism of fire (quite literally) to a world of druggage to which he would never go back...

Got there on the thursday and set up camp with about 15 others, did the usual in getting everything set up and the fire going which was all good. Being the impatient lot we are, we bosh the acid on the first night but my aforementioned friend decided he did not want acid as it would be too heavy. Fair enough.

After a couple of hours he was getting a bit bored of watching us all stare at the fire making funny noises and laughing so unbeknownst to me asks another of my friends if he can have an E.

he has the E then after it does not work he asks for another, then another, then another.

In the space of an hour. AN HOUR. This man had never taken drugs before in his life. He came up and couldn't speak for about 2 hours, his face looked like it was about to explode and foam was coming out of his mouth. Any attempt to communicate was met with a wild stare and a growling noise through the clenched teeth of a madman, I feared for his life.

After 2 hours of trying to get the poor fucker to tell us what he wanted he shouted in the loudest possible way:

JOOINNT!!

after getting the joint sorted he decided that his feet were cold and wanted to to put them in the fire. Despite this obviously being a bad idea and everyone trying to discourage him from doing so, he kept putting his bloody feet in the fire!

On waking up in the morning it turned out that his foot had actually cooked inside his wellington. Like properly cooked. The flesh had come away from the bones and all you could see was meat and tendons, it was disgusting. I am at work now and don't have the picture, but when I get home you are all in for a treat!

BEHOLD THE FOOT!

This was about 3 months after the date in question. I can't find a more sickening one than this I'm afraid


(Jimmy Large Is huffing Jenkem on, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:46, 8 replies)

Chip Van Stage 2000
My most memorable festival experience happened at the chip van stage at 3am on the Sunday morning of Glasto 2000. After the dance tent closed down at way too early o’clock, myself and a friend went looking for more music. We came upon a chip van that was pumping industrial techno. We were suitably hyped up on a range of chemicals, but not long after we got to the chip van stage the mushrooms took hold. The 40 or so revellers morphed into 2 groups battling for galactic dominance. The Cyon-Bots were a race of droids (all in nice shiny aluminium suits) and they were fighting the humans banished from planet earth for an unnatural love of industrial techno. Over the next 2 hours an epic battle ensued with dancing as the only weapon. I was seated on the cold ground watching and I didn’t dare blink in case I missed any of the action. I am sure that about ten people came over to check if I was alright. Eventually the sun rose and the humans prevailed. You are able to read this now only due to the brave dancing of 20 young warriors who saved the human race by dancing in front of a dirty old chip van.
(rezonator, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 12:43, 1 reply)

Sneaking into festivals.
My mate, who we shall call Dave is an expert at sneaking into fezzies, i don't know why but he just has a certain magic about him.

* V festival: Walked straight past the security, having briefly nodded at the first security guard, the other must have assumed nobody could be that cocky as to risk walking past the other six.

* V festival: Again the same thing the following year.

* Glastonbury festival 05 : Same, walked past the security, no questions asked.

* Sunrise festival: This is believe was his proudest moment.
Having being dropped off about two miles from the actual entrance to the festival (his rucksack in the boot of his mates car, leaving him with nothing but his phone, drugs and the coat on his back)with the intention of meeting his mate a bit further on, who would at that point have a 'spare' wristband.
For some strange reason his hypnotic jedi/ Derren Brown mind didn't work on the Somersetian stewards (maybe scrumpy cider has immunititive properties, who knows?), so without further ado, dave walked off around the corner away from the stewards, hopped over a wall, sneaked through a large junk yard (avoiding a range rover full of security) and hid.
After they eventually drove off, Dave hoppped over another fence into the fields and voila he could see the perimeter mesh fence of the festival several fields away.
Next, he bumped into a group of about six other people who were sneaking into the fezzie and declined their offer of sneaking in with them. He headed off in a slightly different direction, keeping lowin the grass, hopping through hedges and tip toeing across the road into parallel fields.
And so on... Until he got to a farm and realised that the only way onwards was to run through the farm yard and somehow not get spotted by anyone (including the dogs or the bloke in tractor)... Unfortunately he was spotted by the dogs and had to run across the farm, through a hedge and into the next field which unfortunately was divided by a rather big stream/river.

To his dismay, as he was pondering how to cross the water, he heard a vehicle pull over and he turned to see a police car on the other side of the hedge and two coppers getting out. The farmer must have alerted security.

Shit! he thought, better hide, luckily his cgreen and brown camouflage coat enabled him to blend into the green grass, and for an agonising five minutes that must have seemed like an eternity, he lay perfectly still. The police eventually buggered off.

Relieved and ecstatic he got to his feet and again tried to find a way over the water, but his options were few: Get soaked, risk the road, risk the farm or give up.

As he was ponderng these, he barely had time to notice a police range rover had pulled up on the other side of the fence and two more police officers stepped out of the vehicle.

This time Dave was unprepared and barely had time to hide behind a tree, thankfully just in the nick of time, when his fucking phone started ringing and the copper spotted him.

Quick as a flash, Dave smiles his typical shit eating grin and simply said 'Oh sorry Officer, i wasn't hiding from you, i was trying to get to the car park where my girlfriend would be greeting me with my workers wristband, as i'm a day late and the stewards at the gate didn't believe me'... (his friend on the phone heard every single word)

The copper stopped. Stared at him.

Dave shitting himself, hoping to god that the officer doesn't search his pockets and find a moderate personal quantity of disco biscuits and skunk.

So Dave wanders over, shakes the officers hand and again his unyielding cheekiness erupts.

'Officer do you mind if use your telephone to ring my girlfriend?'

'Sure, you can sit in the back seat, we'll drive you to the car park'

So the officer passes Dave his mobile phone and he proceeds to ring his mates.

The telephone call goes something like this:

Dave: 'Oh hi mate, i'm in the carpark, the police have been nice enough to give me a lift past the stewards'

Friend A: 'What the fuck! You should have waited at the entrance, we've been out looking for you'

Dave: 'Ok thats nice. Can you put (Friend B) on the phone please, she has my wrist band'

Friend B: 'Have you been arreste. OMG, Dave what' happened.., FUCK!!!'

Dave: 'Yeah thats cool, yeah just meet me in five minutes then, just look for the police range rover'

Friend B: 'I'm not fucking sneaking you in, in front of the police'

Dave: 'Yeah just bring the spare wrist band, cheerio... bye'

Then the most uncomfortable ten minutes of his life as the police started asking question.

Where are you working? Where are you from? What do you do?

And luckily friend B came out with a 'borrowed' wrist band and despite the fact it was clearly clamped shut (i.e slipped off skinnier friends wrist) and the fact that the wrist band was a punters wrist band and not a workers wrist band, and despite the fact he had clearly been caught sneaking in, and that he had a pocket full of drugs....

The police had more or less unknowingly driven him to his destination and even let him use their phone.

He shook their hands, thanked them for their time and gave friend B the biggest kiss on her cheek and spent the next few minutes awkwardly struggling with the under sized wrist band, before getting it on only a few yards away from the police.

He then walked past the stewards, and i assume it was the happiest moment of his life.

Legend.

100% True story.

Length - Six fields or so.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 21:18, 1 reply)

T[rojan Horse] in the Park
Me and a couple of Scottish friends flew from London for our third year at this fantastic music festival. We'd been the previous two years and so I knew what to expect when we arrived. We would be camping with some of their other Scottish mates, a bunch of scruffy blokes who came from some tiny fishing village in the Outer Hebrides or something*.

Those boys were fucking nuts.

I'm glad we were camping *with* them, as they were happy ransacking the neighbouring tents and causing mayhem wherever they went. Operating like some kind of uncontrollable security system, they patrolled our tent area, dispensing justice to anyone who (in their opinion) deserved it. It kept the other Neds and Pikies off our back though, so we didn't complain.

Late one night, I was the last man sitting around chatting to these savages when the oldest one (he must have been in his forties) declared that there was something missing from our camp. He wanted a gazebo and so I was roped in to help them procure one. Between the four of us, we managed to steal a gazebo so large it could probably have engulfed the Pet Sounds tent. The fact that we had taken it from another large group of campers no more than ten metres away did not deter their enthusiasm as we staggered over guy ropes and dumped it down over most of our own tents. Watching the sincere denial to the enraged victims the following morning was worth the ticket price alone.

That wasn't their finest hour though. Oh no...

The aforementioned ringleader of this gang and his shortarse buddy really wanted to see Ocean Colour Scene. My friends and I knew this would be one of the most popular gigs of the weekend, so we made sure to be in the tent a couple of acts before they came on. The cavemen were not blessed with such foresight and by the time they arrived at the entrance, the tent was absolutely chock-full. The devious twats tried to get in, but site security had every entrance sealed; it was one in, one out. Bad luck boys, see you after the show...

With minutes to spare before the gig started, we spotted a strangely-familiar bottle collector donned in an official Hi-Vis jacket pushing a big blue wheelie bin through the crowd. He was chucking drink bottles and other crap into it and looked oddly pleased with his filthy work. The crowd strained and parted just enough to let the valiant binman struggle through. He reached the centre and to the surprise of everyone but us, the bin burst open in a shower of litter revealing our feral ringleader's minature mate who had been hiding inside. The Hi-Vis jacket and the bin were abandoned and the pair of them disappeared into the melee before tent security knew what was happening.

The loud cheer from the stunned crowd was soon masked by the opening notes of The Riverboat Song, and the tent erupted for the best gig of the festival.

*EDIT: Just remembered the name of the place... Banff.
( chart cat has an itch, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 7:36, 3 replies)

Isle of Wight Festival
At the aforementioned festival, I got extremely drunk, as you do. I spotted the chubby cherub from Keane. I ran up to him screaming, "MR KEANE MAN! MR KEANE MAN!".

He stopped, looked me up and down and muttered, "What?"

I responded with, "Do you want play naked lazer tag in my back garden?", before I was sick on the spot.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 15:58, 3 replies)

Jingle Bells
I spent Christmas with Alan, Alison, Alex and Albert - and I have to say that they looked splendid in their yuletide clothing. They were wearing novelty knitted jumpers with reindeer, snowmen and suchlike decorating them; on their heads they had the traditional paper crowns; and they spent the evening singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" around the piano.

You know where this is going, don't you?

I don't think I've ever seen such festive Als.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 9:23, 5 replies)

I've been to a festival...
...a farmer's market food festival. A friend of mine tripped over but she was fine. I bought some mustard. It was fab.
(Ghostlight, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:43, 1 reply)

"You can't take that in, mate."
Years ago I went to see Metallica and Marilyn Manson play at the Big Day Out at the Milton Keynes Rose Bowl. My mate Greg and I had been queuing up to get into the place for ages, the sun was beating down and I was quite happily chugging back can after can of Kestrel while Greg sipped at his litre bottle of Navy Rum (being a tight bastard he planned on nursing the bottle all day, showing it the kind of love and attention that should’ve been reserved for a firstborn child). We were doing a happy little dance of joy – we’d been waiting to see Metallica for a fucking long time and were pretty damn excited.

Eventually we get to the front of the queue. We get a full body search from some geezer who looks like Jason Statham’s uglier, harder-looking brother and another bloke who turns out to be an incredibly butch and hideous woman. Jason Statham’s brother says to Greg: “You can’t take that in, mate – its glass. Put it in the bin.” And he pointed towards a BIG fucking plastic container filled up with a wonderful plethora of amazing, wonderful booze bottles (there was also a sword in there – fuck knows why someone decided to bring that to a festival). Greg asks if he can transfer the contents of his bottle into a plastic container. “No,” comes the terse reply. I start to realise now why it’d taken so long to get to the front of the queue. This poor fucker had had enough of metallers attempting to smuggle in more contraband than Han Solo would’ve been proud to handle in a couple of decades.

Then Greg says something genius. In retrospect, it was probably the most fucking stupid thing I ever heard him say: “Can I drink it now before I go in?” He asks. The security man mountain shrugs and moves onto the next person in line, pushing us to one side while Greg decides what to do with his pride and joy – the lovely bottle of booze. Greg takes a BIG swig, pulls a weird face as the rum burns his throat.. He offers me the bottle. “Fuck no, mate,” I say. “Can’t fucking stand rum.”

So we stand there for a few more minutes, people pushing past us to get in, as Greg manages to drink almost an entire litre bottle of rum. When he can’t take anymore he lobs the bottle in the bin and we approach Jason’s brother again, he says: “You gonna be ok?” to Greg, who shrugs and slurs: “I’m fine – that was just my breakfast, mate.” And we’re allowed inside.

We make it a couple of paces, we get out of sight of the security in the milling crowd, before Greg turns to me, and says: “I think I might have a little sit down for a bit.” Greg then slumps to his knees, assumes a position as if he’s praying to Allah, and makes a funny little gurgling noise. “You ok, Greg?” I ask.

Greg moans quietly for a bit, then I notice the deep, dark patch appearing at his groin and spread down his legs with added steam as he proceeded to piss himself in full view of a thousand-or-so festival goers. “Don’t feel too good, Spanky,” he says, as he tries to stand up, vomits spectacularly into the air like a chutney fountain, and then falls into a deep, heavy sleep, snoring like a Bison with bronchitis and a forty a day fag habit.

Useless cunt...

Thankfully Greg sobered up after a spot of gentle kicking. But to this day I still can’t listen to anything by Marilyn Manson or Metallica without being reminded of the pervasive, almost imperceptible smell of stale piss and rum-flavoured vomit.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:24, Reply)

My first festival
Well maybe not first, as they all sort of mixed together into one big childhood memory.

between the age of 5 and 8 i went to glastonbury and spent much of the time in the playground and craft areas, I remember the playground quite vividly, large wood fortress with a zipline that you went down and landed in straw. I dont even think i was aware that live music even took place at the festival, all i remember is the playground and all the cool arty stuff like stilt walkers and fire breathers and them gyro thingys.

anyway, while I was playing (unsupervised as my mum was rather liberal and didn't bat an eyelid at the idea of a 5 year old boy walking around a festival ground alone (those were the days)) I saw a large blue tent, to my youthful eyes it looked like a circus tent, and the door was slightly open to reveal more playground activities, as well as food and drink all lined up on a table, but it was all closed off and my attempts to get in were met with denial from the staff...

I walk away defeated, upset that i couldn't play in the exclusive area but not so much as to stop me having fun in the common zone.

I think it was the next day, or maybe the same, I really can't remember but I asked my mother permission to go off exploring, she happily let me and off i went into the unknown regions of glastonbury, I must of been walking around for an hour or so, through the camp sites, past stalls and artistic stuff and performers, taking in all the sights and sounds of the festival weekend.

Now I havn't been back to glastonbury since then so I can't exactly remember but i think the layout was sort of like a figure of 8, at any rate I ended up back at the same 4 way junction several times, and when i began to get tired I decided to head back to the tent... except. I couldn't remember which way the tent was... not being one to panic i remembered what I'd been told if i were to get lost. stay calm, stay still, and find someone who looks offical. Eventually 2 girls, probably in their 20s come up to me and ask if i'm lost, I tell them I am and they explain that they are going to take me to the lost child tent, a big blue tent near the big zip line...

well awesome, I get to go there afterall! huzzah! I wasn't worried about being lost at all now, if anything i was over the moon, and i walked back to the lost tent with a skip in my step. past the performers, past the stalls, past my tent waving to my mum as i past.

I spent the afternoon sheltered from the harsh sun, playing with all the exclusive toys, eating all the free sweets and meeting a couple of kids my age too.

but eventually i got bored and decided to leave, so i waited to the staff weren't looking and left. walked back to my tent just in time for sandwiches. festivals are such wonderous places when you a child :)
(That Random Guy, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 9:55, 1 reply)

... and one friend, a Levellers fan
... was dead keen to see them play at Glastonbury on the Friday. It was quite cute to see him getting more and more excited the closer and closer we got to the time. We got down there on the Thursday, and set up camp. Boshed a couple of tabs of acid, and had a smoke. My friend decides - wisely - that he's going to have a shit while the toilets are relatively "clean".

So off he toddles, and a couple of us follow him to go for a slash.

We wait for him.

And we wait for him.

Sitting having a shit, he realised he'd absolutely chosen the wrong bog, as this one was clearly being lifted up by a crane.

But he's on acid. Silly boy - of course it's not moving!

Except it bloody is, though!

No its not, lad. You're tripping. YOU'RE TRIPPING!

It bloody is ... sure it is ...

He finishes his shit, pulls his trousers up, and ... well ...

Just in case, you understand ...

Gets down on his hands and knees (in a festival bog!), and very gingerly opens the door ...

To find us - and soon everyone else - laughing, staring and pointing going "What the FUCK are you doing?!"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 17:01, 2 replies)

Somewhere in the BBC archives...
...is footage of me, drunk off my face being interviewed by a roving reporter at V98 while Blur play in the background. I am not sure why they picked me to talk to, but I was asked if I was having a good time. So I said ‘Yeah, but it’s not as good as Pulp last year’ and was asked ‘Why?’

My logic for this is odd, I admit, but my response was ‘Because Pulp had fireworks’

Which was met with a slight confused ‘Um…so do Blur, they’ve been going for 5 minutes’

How drunk do you need to be not to notice a huge firework display?
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:44, 1 reply)

Orbital
I made my way from the very back of the crowd to the very front by clutching my hand over my mouth, leaning forward slightly, and making puking noises.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 8:41, 2 replies)

For those who were wondering
Yes, Global Gathering is the biggest pile of shite festival in Britain. In my opinion anyway.

It is for this reason that I decided on taking copious amounts of mind grenade type disco biscuits, despite quitting over a year ago, in order to pass the time more effectively. Which as it turns out was a bit of a crap idea.

During this time my girlfriend had to look after me, and to this day she still says she hated me a bit that night...

A few excerpts include, getting into a fight with a chav who shouted 'Why don't you go back to freak town!?' at me for wearing a wizard hat and kimono... She admits this looked hilarious, as it consisted of me in technicolour outfit, hair and beard, scuffling half heartedly with an increasingly concerned chav, whilst shouting about not having the train fare.... For some reason.

In a crowded bar, going to put my arm out to rest on the wall, and falling, due to the lack of wall there, a la Delboy style. This too was apparently, very funny.

Trying to break my way on to the bungee jumping crane and being wrestled away from it by the steward.

Having a full conversation with my girlfriend about what she does for a living and how weird that was, because 'that's what my girlfriend does!'.

Finding myself in the middle of a circle of people, shouting and cheering whilst a randomer tackled me to the floor and ran away. I have no idea what that was about. Nor how I got there. Neither does she.

At 8 in the morning on the Monday, arguing with her and having to get a passer by to clarify that in fact, yes it is Monday morning, and no there are no more bands.

And, if you want to see what happens when you pass out, before all of this even started, check out the picture I've been debating whether to put up in the replies.....
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 15:39, 8 replies)

Flaming Fucker
My mates and I were sat on the perimeter hill that lines the edge of the Download site; the bit just before you get to the racetrack, where you can sit and mong out and watch the tiny speck of the band in the distance on the main stage while I relax after a heavy day trudging about and queueing for:

a) a piss
b) some beer
c) some more beer after a big hairy cunt spills my pints on the way back to where my mates are sitting
d) a portion of under-cooked noodles smeared in watered down brown sauce for the princely sum of £6–50
e) another piss
f) a novelty giant sized top hat made out of bright red felt
g) oddly, a Calipo – just because I really fancied one
e) even more beer

So, my mates and I spent our day wandering about, listening to various bands and saying to random emo kids: “Cheer up, mate – might never happen.”

We’re sat on this big steep hill, drinking the contents of a big paper carrier bag full of booze we’d managed to smuggle in with us, passing round the now nearly empty bottles of bacardi, JD, and Teachers (blurchh!). I have absolutely no idea who was playing. It was the year System of a Down headlined, so it was probably them. Though in all honesty it could’ve been Britney-fucking-Spears on stage as far as we were concerned. We were – I think the phrase goes – absolutely fucking shitfaced wankered.

Steve goes to finish off the bacardi, swigging it back and taking a deep pull on the bottle; he looked like an eager calf greedily suckling at a set of engorged cow-boobies. Mike, my other mate, playfully knocked the bottle out of his gob and it fell to the ground and rolled down the hill, gathering speed, bobbling and bouncing until it hit some goth bird on the arse. She turned and shot us a nasty look, called us a “load of wankers.” We apologised.

The band droned on on stage, the sound lost in the slight swell of the wind – it made whoever it was sound like they were in a tumble dryer. I sat and watched the crowd – the ground at the foot of the hill for as far as the eye could see was littered with thousands of festival-goers, mostly dressed in black, some dancing a bit, others relaxing laying on the ground, munching on something overpriced and undercooked.

Mike finished off the teachers, then he started absently searching for some stones and pebbles which he placed inside the bottle. After ten minutes or so he’d filled it up to the bottom of the teachers label, about a quarter full of stones and various bits of crap.

“What the fuck are you doing, Mike?” I asked.

“It’s getting dark... I’m making a light,” he said.

I shrugged. It kept him quiet, I was enjoying a nice little relax. Fuck it. I listened to the music, watched the crowd and glanced occassionally over at Mike as he systematically tore up strips of the paper carrier bag and stuffed it inside the bottle. Eventually, after he’d laboured over this thing for about five minutes, he set fire to the bushy load of paper sticking out the top with his lighter; it looked like a miniature flaming palm tree, and plonked it down between his legs. Sat back with a big stupid grin on twattish face and went to stretch out his legs.

At which point he knocked the bottle over and sent it rolling down the hill, gathering speed, the bright orange flame flashing in the dim light as it mixed with whatever remnants of whisky were left inside the bottle.

“GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY !!!” I screamed.

Then other people screamed as they turned and saw this weapon hurtling towards them, this flaming improvised device of doom and destruction....

I heard more screaming. I heard loads more swearing....

.... but I’d really love to know how that turned out....

...you see, Mike, Steve, and Spanky were legging it as fast as humanly possible in the opposite direction before the flaming fucker hit.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:53, 4 replies)

Apologies if I have told this before.
A couple of years ago I was in Ulverston coinciding with their annual Dickensian Festival.

My other half’s flat had a direct view out over the main road that runs through the town centre, so I sat idly looking out the window at the crowds below. There were people dressed as Dickens, as sweeps, as mayors, as Victorian ladies and gentlemen and servants and Oliver Twist and all sorts.

And there was a pirate. A four or five year old pirate. Being herded about by his Mum and Dad who were nudging him in one direction, then the other and turning him to face this way and that. It looked odd, until I saw the press photographer and realised they were obviously hoping to get their little pride and joy onto the front page of the local paper.

‘Aw’ I thought ‘The proud parents, how sweet’

And then I noticed something odd. His sword was round. And black. And shiny. And about two foot long. And rotating at the tip. The bell end shaped tip.

The jolly japesters had given their son a double ended, flexible, rotating dildo to use as a sword.

I didn’t know whether to piss myself laughing or call social services. I do sincerely hope he got his picture in the paper though.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 8:36, 2 replies)

Alternative Nation
Failed attempt to start a new Aussie festival was only ever held once. It started out with a huge line up, bands dropped out when they realised how crap the ticket sales were (Chilli Peppers and Stone Temple Pilots were two who decided against showing up) it rained all day in Sydney, the whole venue was on an old clay pit so everything went (literally) to shit) and the day was dry due to alcohol bans... in other words it was a cluster fuck of the highest order.
And yet, there was this one moment.
Having smuggled a bottle of vodka in and drunk 3/4 of it I swapped the last for a "cigarette" and was therefore utterly trollied when Lou Reed braved the rain to play.
In front of the stage was a small mud lake formed by the rain and sluicing clay so there was a gap of about 4 metres between the crowd and the edge of the stage.
I was already drenched and mud soaked so I just waded on it through the mire until I was at the front.
Reed, seeing this, wandered over until he was about an arms length away and started to play.
By the time he was finished hundreds of others had braved the knee deep mud to join me, but for a while there, I had Lou Reed playing a gig just for me.
( difficultchild, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 4:58, 2 replies)

Ah, finally.
Gambling? Nope. Impulse buys? Not really. Unexpected nudity? A little, yes. But here, at last, is a subject upon which I feel I can speak with some authority. Having discarded my festival V plates* at the tender age of 17, I am now a veteran of God knows how many mud-strafed, pharmaceutically irresponsible weekend jaunts, spanning two decades and both hemispheres.**

There are just so many stories to tell. Like the time at Glasto when my mate R lost his virginity to a girl who, I was euphemistically assured, “had a lovely personality”, who was seemingly unfamiliar with the sound-proofing qualities (or lack thereof) inherent in Argos’s range of camping & outdoor requisites, and who made a noise like a cat being ironed when she got into the swing of things. The following morning he pinned his previous day’s underpants to the floor with a tent peg, then set fire to them, either as some sort of sacrificial thanksgiving or a rudimentary exorcism.

Or the time when, approximately 40 hours into a weekend bender that the late Hunter S Thomson would probably describe as “a bit fucking much, to be honest”, I decided that the best and safest course of action would be to propose to my then girlfriend. I staggered into the market area at Reading at 1am, barely able to gurn convincingly, let alone speak, accosted a deeply unimpressed stallholder, and announced my intention to purchase a ring. He fixed me with an expression, doubtless honed from years of dealing with semi-conscious twatbaskets such as myself, that said “however much you believe in your heart, right now, that you need to buy a ring, please trust me that you absolutely don’t.” The cunt still sold me one though. The engagement lasted 3 weeks, and I don’t take drugs any more…***

Or the time we got arrested in the middle of the day for smoking a casual lunchtime spliff in the doorway of our tent, by two of HM’s finest who looked like they’d graduated from Cop School that morning. Seriously, the male one looked like he hadn’t quite begun shaving yet, however his female counterpart was definitely ensconced in the ‘comfortable footwear’ enclosure, and gave off the impression that she’d castrate any one of us in a fucking heartbeat if the urge took her. They even had a crack at ‘good-cop-bad-cop’, with the work experience kid chatting amiably about the best food stalls on site while his colleague searched my mate’s bag (thank Jehovah she’d been holding the doobie when the constabulary showed up – if they’d searched my bag, we’d all have gone to jail). We did what I considered at the time to be an Oscar-worthy performance of wide-eyed naivety, claiming to have purchased a ready-rolled spliff from some random crusty the previous evening, because “none of us had taken drugs before and we fancied trying it”. Arf. The best bit, and I swear this is true, is that while this was happening, the compilation tape on our little stereo was playing ‘I Fought The Law’ by The Clash, followed by ‘Get Myself Arrested’ by Gomez.

Or the time my mate Paul came to Reading specifically to see Nirvana and nobody else, spent the entire weekend telling anyone who’d listen that he was there to see Nirvana, then drank a litre of supermarket vodka on the afternoon they were headlining, and passed out in the main field an hour before they came on stage. Subsequent attempts to kick him awake proved fruitless, but during one briefly lucid moment he did manage to utter the immortal words “Ah, fuck it, they’ll be on next year”. Oddly enough, they weren’t.

And then there’s been the music. I’ve seen some of the greatest bands in history perform some of the finest sets of their careers. I’ve seen virtual unknowns blow away an entire festival, and established megastars who turned out to be a staggering disappointment.

I couldn’t tell you my favourite – there are just too many. But I once saw The Levellers stop a headline show at Glastonbury, in front of 150,000 people, and announce that they weren’t playing another note until my mates and I (and about a dozen others) got down off the sound tower. Which is pretty cool, I reckon.


*Not at an actual ‘V’ festival, thank fuck. V Festivals are effectively a crowded barbecue/corporate branding exercise with Dido playing in the distance. For all eternity.

**The British do festivals way better than the Australians. I have never been able to figure out why.

***…than Motley Crue did on the Dr Feelgood tour.
(Monkey Tennis isn't Spartacus, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 18:21, 1 reply)

Right....
DEAR PEOPLE

If your story involoves using a portaloo where NOTHING HAPPENS except you did a shit in unpleasant conditions or that time you took drugs and it was really trippy but ultimately NOTHING HAPPENS then bear in mind that to everyone else it's FUCKING BORING.

SO REMEMBER:

Think before you post. If it's dull as shit, DON'T POST.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 11:36, 17 replies)

The best EVER
It was quite possibly the first ever WOMAD in 1982 but it could have been the following year.

I'd never been to a festival before but my eventually-to-be-ex-husband-but-at-that-point-boyfriend was a bit of a muso and dragged me, willingly, along. It was all very nice and we did the usual things but one thing sticks in my mind as a highlight, not just of the festival, but probably the year.

At that time I'd never heard of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan [and I can tell by the looks of bemusement on most of your faces that some of you still haven't] but the man was, quite simply, the voicepiece of God. Sadly he's no longer with us, but his music lives on. For those that don't know, he was the king of Qawwali {see: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qawwali} the mystic music of the Sufis. The group was about ten strong and consisted of a few solo singers, backing singers/clappers, harmonium players and a tabla player, all sat cross-legged on the stage with Nusrat in the centre, magnificent as a Buddha, a big, fat man with a voice bigger than his belly.

We'd both been smoking some very fine Nepalese black all day and were feeling more than mellow, in fact we were half inclined to nip back to the tent but Ben really wanted to see this, so we found a nice spot at the back of the tent and settled down. The music was incredible - each piece would start slowly, voices and harmonium slowly weaving up and down a scale for a few minutes until Nusrat launched into the first chorus. Hand-claps would start and each line would be repeated by the backing singers, the momentum building, the tabla throbbing, the harmoniums grinding, the voices wailing and flying, the steady clapping of the backing chorus. We were both transfixed and transported. After the first number ended the applause was immense and we settled down for the next number, I sat in front of Ben and he put his arms around me and we slowly rocked along with the music. As the next song built, he gently started rubbing my tits through the thin material of my floaty dress and I could feel his hard-on grow against my spine.

At the end of the second song I manoevered myself next to Ben and discreetly got out of my knickers before kneeling down over Ben's outstretched legs with my back to him again. I spread my dress so that it covered his lap and he undid his jeans and slid his pants down. This time, as the music slowly built, I gently rocked up and down on my knees until he was able to slide smoothly inside me. I can't adequately describe the feeling as for the whole of the next song, which was at least 15 minutes, I ever so gently rocked up and down on Ben's hard cock while my eyes and ears were fixed on the group of musicians and singers on the stage. The music built and built, hippies danced and swayed, the voices soared and swooped and Ben's hand slowly reached around, under my dress, over my thigh, found my clit and began to rub in time to the beat. I'm not a religious person, but that night I definitely had a religious experience and seriously considered becoming a full-time Sufi. I came like a train but Ben had to wait until the middle of the next song and my second mind-blowing orgasm before he shot a load so long and hard that it almost came out of the top of my head.

[If you're interested I it was 'Dam hama dam ali ali' that was the big one. We tried replicating the experience at home but it was never quite the same. Good fun trying though.]
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 16:21, 6 replies)

Glastonbury
In the early nineties. It was the year Tom Jones headlined, but before he was cool. I was 16, wide-eyed as it was my first Glastonbury, and I was there for five days.

Me and the guy I was with wrote on our tent in big letters as follows:

Day 1 - TOM JONES IS NUMBER 1
Day 2 - TOM JONES IS GOD
Day 3 - TOM JONES IS THE DEVIL
Day 4 - TOM JONES IS MY LOVER
Day 5 - TOM JONES IS MY DAD

On Day 4 (I think) a woman came up to me at the tent with a camera.

"I love your tent!" she said "Can I take a photo of it?" (she'd made a special trip with her camera to do so).

"Are you going to watch him?" she asked. "I am. I'm going to throw my knickers at him, and I've been saving my dirtiest ones so they stick".

Good times.
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 20:07, 2 replies)

Punk Rock
I'll be going to Rebellion in Blackpool, I go every year.

It's just like the festivals you kiddies go to with a few differences:

You'll be sleeping in a tent.
I'll be in a hotel.

You'll sleep in a sleeping bag.
I'll sleep in a bed.

You'll carefully hover over the portaloo toilet trying not to touch the mountain of shit sticking up through the seat.
I'll be reading the paper in the en suite.

You'll wash by squirting cold water over yourself with a hose.
I'll have a shower.

You'll eat burgers bought at rip-off prices from a bloke in a van.
I'll be perusing the menu in the restaurant.

You'll be dropping, snorting and smoking various substances.
I'll be drinking 4% strength lager and pacing myself.

You might not sleep all weekend.
I'll go up to bed when the miserable night porter refuses to serve us anymore.

You'll watch a mixture of big names and up and coming "essential" bands.
I'll watch a load of fat, bald, middle aged reformed punk bands.

You might get a shag off a pretty student.
I might have a wank whilst watching countdown.

I'm getting old, I'll be 38 soon you know.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 15:14, 6 replies)

How 'bout Renaissance Faires?
Ever been to one? They're full of awesomeness. Loads of people dressed up in bizarre outfits, women in low cut bustiers showing impressive cleavage, all manner of hand crafted stuff for sale, tons of food and beer and wine available around every corner, jousting, jugglers, mimes on stilts, comedy acts, music, and general weirdness everywhere.

The one they hold in Crownsville MD is one of the biggest in this country, and every year the Mediaeval Baebes perform on the last weekend. I've made it there for the past four years and had a blast every time. There was only one time I really got a dirty look from everyone in the area...

There was a Live Chess match, in which costumed actors were arranged as chess pieces on a large grid. It was presided over by "Queen Elizabeth" and the Royal Entourage, and featured the players having rather energetic duels when two pieces came together with swords clanging and maces bouncing off of shields and other violence. At the end of the show the victor was declared and the Royal Entourage was leaving, so the shouty guy who made all of the announcements roared out "God save the queen!"

And from the back of the crowd came a lone voice roaring back "We really mean it, maaaaaan!"

My kids stayed well away from me for a while.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:48, 6 replies)

A basic timeline of my activities at Glastonbury 2003
Thursday
5pm: Turn up.
8.00: Get very drunk and very stoned.
8.30: Try mushrooms for the first time.
9.30: Try ecstasy for the first time.
10.00: Try salvia for the first time.
10.05: Come back to earth.

Friday
10am: Recover.

Saturday
1.30: Go to Pyramid Stage.
1.45: Watch Jools Holland
3.00: Watch Jimmy Cliff
3.30: Realise we haven't put any sun cream on yet.
3.31: Put sun cream onto already burnt skin.
4.30: Watch the Polyphonic Spree
6: Watch the Turin Brakes
7.30: Watch Supergrass
9.00: Watch the Flaming Lips
9.30: Take an E.
10.00: Take another E.
10.20: Watch Radiohead. Die of sheer happiness.
12.00: Dance in the Glade for the next three hours.
3.00am: Go to the 24 Hour Energy Tent for more dancing until the sun comes up.
5am: Go back to the tent for bongs.
7am: Sleep.

Sunday
10.30am: Get woken up by the sun.
Rest of day: Wander round like zombies.
12 midnight: Fail to get into tent to watch the Chemical Brothers. Decide to go home instead.
12.45: Hit the wall and overturn car on a B road somewhere near Bristol.
1.15: Questioned by police about the half-ounce of cannabis they found in the car.
1.30: Get to hospital.
9.00: Leave hospital.
11.00: Get back home.
11.01: Sleep.

Best weekend of my life.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:00, Reply)

Gatecrasher 08
the wind was so bad it blew a fat girl over right in front of me.
(Tibble off the crack since, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 17:32, 4 replies)

That Festival Feeling...
At Roskilde one year a few mates and I decided to go into Copenhagen during the daytime and have a little look round. We ended up in Tivoli Gardens, just oppostite the main train station because a) we’re lazy bastards and couldn’t be bothered to walk very far, and b) they had candy floss and a restaurant shaped like a pirate ship inside.

We’re walking though Tivoli Gardens when a little kid starts to annoy the fuck out of us. A whiney little Bavarian uber-shit with a dodgy brilcreamed centre parting, screaming and bitching at his mother and any random passerby. The parents didn’t seem to mind or chose to ignore their son’s obnoxious behaviour towards total strangers. After a while this cock-knocker steps back and away from his parents and starts gawping at the scruffy, smelly, muddy men walking behind. He starts pulling faces at us.

Jesus, I realise, this is why festivals are so fucking great. You get a bit of a break from spoilt little brats like this and a world geared towards kids (anyone every been to a fun pub? I’ll let you in on a little secret – they’re about as fun as having a transvestite serial killer hang you up in his garage, pour pepper down you’re japs eye, and attach thumbscrews to your testicles while he systematically anally rapes you until you’re dead. Not very fun at all). The kid stopped, turned to look at his parents to make sure their attention was elsewhere, and started flicking us the V’s.

Now, what happened next was very unlike me. Looking back I'm still not too sure why the hell I did what I did - I blame it on the fact that I’d been living the carefree, hedonistic festival life of watching great bands, drinking great beer, and partying non-stop for the three days previously. Basically, I was completely relaxed. I was completely at peace with the world. I was back in reality and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. Rules? Ha! Fuck rules!

Noticing this little cunt’s parents were miles infront now, buying some useless overpriced status-tat, I suddenly lost control of my body. I ran forwards and booted the kid hard up the arse and nearly sent him into orbit. He looked stunned then ran off crying. My mates looked stunned too. “What the fuck did you do that for?” one asked, looking round and noticing about a dozen or so tourists were gawping at us in disbelief.

As we made a hasty getaway before someone made a citizens arrest I really didn’t have any other answer for my mate except: “Why did I do that? Well, because it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Who’d have thought: attending music festivals, slipping into that carefree festival feeling, turns me into a little-kiddie-attacking monster...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 14:50, 4 replies)

Somethings man is not meant to interfere with
Hi Everyone,

Long time lurker (the only post that I've done before was bitching last year that I didn't go to Glastonbury).

I could write about my first Reading where I accidently ignited a gas canister, which a helpful metalhead booted into the next field (I'll be interested to see if any stories about a fireball landing on someones tent come in). Or I could write about the 3 litres of pear cider I necked in half an hour that led to me leading a conga line in front of the main stage at Glastonbury to "play that funky music white boy".

However, there seems to be a lot of those type of stories so I'll tell you about what was my most memorable festival moment of last year.

I was at Secret Garden Party, wandering around and looking at the food on offer. They had bacon sandwiches, they had pies BUT no breakfast themed pies. For the rest of the festival, I sat by the lake and divised what would be the best pie in the world: It would have chopped bacon, sausages, baked beans and tomatoes for a filling in shortcrust pastry, I would serve it with hash browns on the side and top the pie with a fried egg. This would make me my millions! I would be a hero to the common man and women would swoon at my mad pie skills!

Shame that when I got home and made it was saltier than a seaman's semen.

Ho hum
(rogers nelson is the unexpected item in your bagging area, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 21:24, 3 replies)

How many roads must a man walk down?
Oxygen festival in Ireland.I unexpectedly got a ticket on the Thursday afternoon and was offered a lift there too. Great news but it meant I had no time to get a sleeping bag or a change of clothes or anything like that. So I bought bin-liners to sleep in and a bottle of gin and was ready to go. Got there on Thursday night and started into chain smoking and drinking. Lidle gin is terrible, let me tell you,. Nevertheless I was going hell for leather.’ This is awful’ then ’this gin isn’t too bad actually’ then ‘this is amazing’ then ’this is the only drink I will ever drink ever again’ and so on until it culminated in the ‘Worst Piss Of All Time’.

We were miles away from a portaloo but right beside a fence. And there were loads of other blokes ( and a couple of ladies) having their way against this fence, so fuck it, I staggered up, took aim and had one of those drunken pisses where you continually sway. I was singing ‘Blowing in the Wind’ full belt, eyes closed and all. I think I was just getting to the end of the chorus and I staggered backwards. I staggered backwards about four steps trying to regain my balance, all the while I was mid-flight, but it wasn’t happening and I fell, knob in hand, lying on my back and I couldn’t stop pissing. All over myself. About a good two meters away from the fence. If anybody had just turned around it would look like I just walked into an open space, lay down, and pissed over myself.

I had no spare trousers, no-body let me sleep in their tent that night and everyone called me Bob Dylan for the rest of the festival.

Good weekend though. Nice and sunny.
(BarryChuckle, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:41, 3 replies)

Bloodstock
A relatively small festival focusing primarily on the heavier, more obscure end of the metal spectrum. I went last year and was frankly staggered by the amount of... odd people from various european countries.

Highlights include:

-Screaming obsceneties at some twat from Kerrang radio who appeared to introduce bands. He lasted all of 4 appearances on stage before he realised nobody liked him.

-The drummer from the unsigned band "Necrosadistic Gost Torture" (who win best band name of the festival) wandering up to me at 6am to blag a cigarette absolutely twatted off his face and playing in less than 8 hours.

-Stealing beer from Alestorm who decided to wander around the campsite screaming at people.

-Watching a mate get launched from an inflatable sofa as a very large man in a cowboy hat leaped on the other end unexpectedly (well, as unexpected as it can be when you hear a scream of "SOFA!" seconds beforehand). Managed to destroy 2 neighbouring tents on his way down from his impromptu flight.

-Going on a hunt for the guy screaming Arnie catchphrases for 12 hours a day every day, finding said guy and joining him in being an annoying twat.

But I think the highlight of the whole thing were the people camped opposite us. We gleaned early on that they happened to be Manowar fans. This was corroborated by them playing one manowar album 24/7 untill the end of the festival. There were about 8 of them in one massive tent which they frequently left unattended, so most people nearby had a nose in it when it was left open.

As it turns out they couldn't be fucked with portaloos, so they'd been shitting and pissing all over the inside of their tent. God only knows where they slept.

By sunday we noticed a strange occurence. They'd all started the festival in jeans, however they'd gradually been cutting them off for whatever reason. Fair enough, cutting them into shorts is acceptable. Then by sunday evening EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM was sporting a pair of jean hot-pants. This was only made funnier by the fact the pockets were hanging a good 4 inches past the cut off legs. It looked like they had little scrotes growing out of their sides.

Wherever you may be, hot-pant wearing Manowar dudes - I salute you.
(mrcheese989, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 22:48, 10 replies)

Glastonbury idiocy
First time, so be gentle with me. EDIT: Actually, sod that. Rough me up a bit.

Stumbling around one of the drier Glastonbury festivals at about 3am my mate Dave comes across an attractive young lady holding a pair of handcuffs. ‘Let me cuff you to the flag pole and we can play for a bit’ she asks with a seductive wink that suggests naughtiness and much shenanigans. Now Dave is not a smart cookie at the best of times, but when he’s got so many illicit substances in him that he rattles like a bottle of paracetamol, he’s the kind of guy that jumps into the Thames or climbs a building for a laugh. Even so, he still declines the generous offer, figuring at best his girlfriend will cut his nuts off.

Staggering back the same way at 6am he sees a very forlorn looking chap, shoulders slumped and trouserless, handcuffed to the very same flagpole. ‘Can you let me out of here please mate? Some bitch stole my wallet.’

What a muppet.
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:55, Reply)

Llowlands 2007
Was lovely, great bands, a bit cheaper than the UK festivals, and a bit safer, a 5g soft drugs limit, and most importantly, everyone was really nice.

I think the moment when I realised just how different the attitudes of our Dutch brethren are was when a bunch of English blokes were wandering along, one of them carrying a small section of those skinny tent poles you get. A charming young Dutch lady asked "Ooh, is that a magic wand jahh?", swivelling on his heel, and with a slight sneer, the fella with the tent pole replied "No! It's a hitting stick" and then proceeded to bash his mate in the head with it.
(LickOutTheJamsMotherfuckers!, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 15:21, 3 replies)

Longdrops of DOOOOOM!
Festival toilets. What a beautifully horrific thing they are. Closer to the stages you are safe with a (relatively) shit free portaloo, closer to the camping however one has to face the Longdrops of DOOOOOM!

My first experience at download '06:

My friend tried to prepare me for them, mostly her repeating
Whatever you do, try your hardest not to look"

Walk towards longdrop, can smell them halfway across the campsite due to it being the hottest weekend of the year.
Icecream van parked right next to them. TASTY!
Loo rolls hanging on string before you go in. There is a drunk bloke pissing ON the loo rolls.
Find a free cubicle AAAARRRGGHH! the horror! I've seen some shit filled portaloos before but nothing can prepare you for that huge vat of excrement and the splashing noises you hear are the person next to you goes for a dump.

I saw:
3 Jumpers
1 Pair of trainers (and 3 or 4 odd shoes)
A tent
A bloke's wallet - it had landed on the shit free support holding the loo up, but to retrieve it would mean going in.

What I did not see:
The (probably not real) man dressed as a pirate wearing wellies, trudging around the poo and sticking his head up through the occasional loo seat and shouting "POP UP PIRATE!"
I think my friend may have lied to me about that bit
(ecilA Alice...has nothing to do, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:35, 6 replies)

Reading '04.
A really muddy year at Reading after a week or so of rain previous.

I was wandering around at about 2am and watched a guy try and take a shortcut through some mud which had been cordoned off. He started to sink.
After about a minute or so, he was stuck up to his chest. By then a large group had gathered around and we began to chant ''WANKER, WANKER!'' at him. Fire brigade arrived to rescue him but stood around for a minute and chanted at him with us before dragging him out.
( Harold Bishop's Love Child some sort of terrifying sex magician., Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:18, 1 reply)

Looking after my cousin
"Look out for your cousin, you're a year older than her," said my mother. I was 17 and obviously wise enough to know that at a festival, miles from home and with limited funds, one should not get completely trollied, shag the man from the fast food van, and wake up face down in a pile of gravel thus leading to cries of "Jesus! The scabs! The blood! What did you do to yourself?" all weekend. Yes, my cousin was much more foolish than me. Then again, she got free burgers.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:53, 1 reply)

Download 2007
Definately my claim to fame

Was watching Dragonforce on my fella's shoulder's and desperate to be within shot of the TV camera panning over the crowd.

Cue Camera: Image on screen, me in my underage youth decides to flash the screen

Cue the biggest cheers I've ever heard in my life (all at me), god knows how many lads saluting me or shaking my boyfriends hand on the way back to the tent

But the best part:

Dragonforce pionting at me and singing "And now we stand with our tits in our hands!!!"

Search for it on Youtube lol, that's gonna be a cracker for my grandkids one day
(WallyEllySue Another fine mess..., Tue 9 Jun 2009, 20:56, 13 replies)

Eating Out
Valerie and I really hit it off. She was a mate of a mate and we met up on a night out in Camden. We sat and talked utter bollocks for most of the night, getting steadily more and more pished as newts on lager and malibu chasers. Near closing time I felt a constricting pain in my leg - I thought it was the onset of a heart attack but then, glancing under the table, I realized Valerie was kneading my thigh and digging her long painted nails into me. Ooooohh!

Her hand trailed up my leg and she started rubbing at my crotch with such vigour and determination I almost expected a genie to miraculously appear from the end of my japs eye.

"There's a park just over the way," Valerie breathed. "I really, really, really want you to go down on me..."

About twenty seconds later we were in the park. We found a quiet, peaceful place behind a row of bushes and had a full and through spit exchange. Then Valerie, framed by the luminous moonlight, reclined on the soft dank grass and hitched up her skirt. She removed her knickers and spread her legs and started to rub at her oversized clit; it resembled the tip of a big pink thumb, and it appeared to grow as she stroked and teased it, glistening in the soft moonlight.

"Lick me!" she ordered.

I got down on my knees quicker than a Catholic who'd just seen a vision of the Virgin Mary and started lapping at Valerie's juicy lady garden. I burrowed my tongue inside her furry kebab and drank her juices. And she tasted, well, she tasted a bit... funny... a bit... odd... But I'm a trooper and continued lapping away like a kitten drinking down a saucer of warm milk.

And then I heard a tremendous growl. It was my stomach. Fuck... I really didn't feel too good. And then I heard an amazing rectal discharge - it scared the hell out of me. And then I realised it was my own arse making all the racket. I stopped my cunning linguistics and sat back on the grass.

"I don't feel too good," I said as I licked my lips, clearing my mouth and chin of Valerie's thick, creamy lady gloop.

Valerie continued to play with herself. I sat and stared. I was feeling ill, but that didn't mean I was any less of a pervert. Then, as my eyes accustomed to the dim moonlight, I noticed something... peculiar about Valerie's vag. It was slick. It was also puffy - too fucking puffy.

My eyes widened as the utterly disgusting realisation dawned on me. I bent over double and puked violently on the grass. Valerie's love tunnel was diseased in some way. It was swollen with yellowish puss and ulcerated and I had, in my eagerness, swallowed a shitload of this creamy purulent discharge.

"I've gotta go," I stammered, as I got to my feet and legged it, leaving Valerie alone in the park to finish herself off.

Its true what they say: Fester Val eating can make you as sick as a fucking dog...
( SpankyHanky, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 11:21, 12 replies)

V2002
At the V festival in Staffordshire, 2002.

We got there quite late and had no choice but to set up our tents at the back of the field, near one of the huge and completely ineffective metal fences.

We set up camp and had an amazing day. We got back to the campsite on Saturday night. We couldn't help but notice a few campers nearby complaining about the "fucking Scallies" who were inhabiting a tent not far from ours. We had seen a few them earlier in the day blantantly wandering around the campsite with obviously stolen boxes of beer, stereos and whatever else they could get their little scally mitts on. Also we heard that they were letting their mates in over the security fence.

Anyway, late on Saturday night a few of us were still sitting around drinking and chatting when out of nowhere two blokes came running through the middle of us. The first was a Scally who was being chased by an irate camper who had just caught the cheeky scamp making off with some of his beer. The Scally stopped running, picked up a stick and WHACKED the other bloke over the head with it. There was blood everywhere, but luckily the bloke was okay and we managed to disarm the Scally and persuade him off to bed.

Well, after that we had no choice but to go to the security blokes and explain the situation. It turned out that they were aware of what was going on and the police would be arriving the next morning. We felt it would be a good idea to stay awake until the police arrived, so a few of us stayed up the rest of the night.

At about 6 the next morning the police arrived, en masse. What followed can only be described as a game of "hunt the Scally". They had (at best) a large, 6 man tent. When the police arrived about 10 people came streaming out of this tent and went off running in various directions. They were all rounded up quite quickly, and the police spent quite a bit of time bringing various possesions out of their tent. I'm not exaggerating when I say that as well as the usual beer and stereos, one of these possessions was a massive plastic camping table with benches.

Seeing that we were awake the Sergeant decides to come over for a chat. We give him a cup of tea, offer him a bacon sandwich and he sits down with us.

This Sergeant made one comment that will stick in my mind for ever. "Bloody Scousers", he said. "If I had my way I'd take a bloody flame-thrower to the whole of Liverpool!"

Staffordshire Police. Gotta love 'em!
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 17:02, Reply)

The Ultimate Festival Chat Up Line
My mate Jim declared that he needed to go and take a dump. He took a roll of precious toilet paper with him (it was late at night and the bogs had long since run out of the stuff), and off he trots into the night. Meanwhile the girlies in the tent opposite come back and sit round outside. Chit chat, beer, the faint possibility of getting some hot quim action. After a while Jim returns, the bog roll under his arm. Now Jim had been trying his hardest to insert piece A into slot B with a particular girl from this tent for the last two days. I could see his face brighten when he saw them (not the girl’s, when he saw the particular object of this festival’s affections massive bazungas). Jim sidles up to her and says:

“Hey, I’ve just been thinking about you,” in the smarmy, cheesy lounge act voice he reserved for members of the opposite sex he was trying his hardest to fertilize.

The girl looked up at him, saw the toilet roll and grimaced: “You were thinking about me while you were having a shit?” she said, a little disgusted. Jim appeared mortified. Now, everyone else was aware she was only making light banter, but Jim was never very good at picking up on this sort of thing. He immediately took it to heart.

I could almost see the rusty cogs in Jim’s brain turn as he attempted to come up with a witty, sexy repost. Eventually something formed, and he said-

-well, what he said made me nearly piss myself and caused everyone present to go very... deadly... silent... It was so horriably, terriably embarrassing that I really did feel like I might die, or at least offer to kill my spectacular retard of a mate to make the happy social situation return to normal again. (We could've chucked his twitching corpse on the fire to keep it going a little longer; everyone would've been happy).

Jim leaned into this girl, put on his ultra-husky come-to-bed voice and said: “I’ve just been in the shitter having a wank and thinking about you...”

Cassanova had nothing on my mate Jim.

The girl was not impressed.

Afterwards he actually told me he thought this line would make her knickers fly off and her legs fall open a bit like Moses parting the Dead Sea.

Fucking muppet...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 16:30, 6 replies)

Reading '99
On the first night, round our campfire, some young men stopped by who may have partaken in various intoxicating substances that day. They were kind enough to introduce us to their pet, "Bobby". Bobby, I must disclose now, was a small wood-and-metal fold-up chair.

They shared their enormous bottle of irn-bru with us then left to make more campfire companions.

Three days later, it's the morning we all have to leave, i'm lying in my tent thinking about all the reasons i don't want to have to get up and take it down, and I hear a piercing, truly anguished cry,

"NO! Someone's put bobby on the FIRE!!"

That gave me enough of a guffaw to help me out of my sleeping bag that morning. My condolences to Bobby's "parents" whoever you were.
( greenish, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 18:12, Reply)

Roskilde '08
We started out with a lemon and a bottle of tequila given to me at a party some time before the festival. None of us were into tequila so we thought we could trade it into something better.
One of my friends is brilliant. For the tequila we got a nice big tent, and for the lemon we got a liver pâté. For the pâté we got a set of tennis rackets, and for those two folding chairs. The cheapest chairs I've ever sat in.
(Haz, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 10:52, Reply)

A little tip to potential thieves..
Don't pitch your tent in between three different groups of people.

Then, especially, don't rob those surrounding tents over the course of the next three days.

If you do, don't leave your tent wide open, so we can all see in and spot all our belongings.

Then, especially this one, don't complain TO THE POLICE that someone set your tent on fire after taking all your belongings out, when about 8 to 10 people are all going to point out that those were our fucking things in the first place...

Hats off to the police on that one. They took him away, made sure everyone got what stuff they could back and took the stuff he'd nicked further afield as evidence, whilst laughing at the smouldering remnants of his weekend...
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 16:08, 1 reply)

World's Slowest Mugging
A dry Glastonbury, some point in the mid 90's.

A couple of years after graduating my group of friends finally had the money to do festivals with a small degree of comfort, before falling into the money pits of property ownership.

We had a nice little camp site setup on the Thursday, tents in a circle with an awning and tarpaulin in the middle, for some where to sit out of the sun or rain.

I woke up early, and wandered off to get a coffee, returning to find my mate Rod skinning up. Result, the sun is shining, I'm not in the fucking office, and I'm in the middle of a field sharing a joint with a friend. Life is pretty good.

At this point my morning took a turn for the slightly odd.

A couple of young blokes wander up, dressed as if about to enter a 'Thieving Scally of the Year' competition - crap trackie bottoms, expensive trainers, and baseball caps not being the fashion of choice for indie kids at the time.

"Oi - what are you doing on our groundsheet?" they asked, revealing themselves to be denizens of that legendary citadel of moral rectitude, Liverpool.

Rod and I calmly suggested they were mistaken, given we owned it, and engaged in some light hearted banter.

One of the scousers got bored and wandered off, at which point we realised there were a good dozen of them within a hundred yards. The other northern monkey had taken offense to my having been sat down.

"Get Up"

"What?"

"Get up so you can fight me!"

"Nah, I don't want to fight you" - this guy was 5'6", I'm 6'2". I have no interest in getting in a fight with anyone.

"Get up or I'll kick you up" - I stand up, and then sit down again. Rod and me are pretty damn calm, but I think it was down to the couple of spliffs we'd had by that point rather than natural cool. The lack of reaction isn't helping our case.

"Come on, I want to fight you" - the bad scouse stereotype then pulls a knife.

"I don't need this knife to take you" - he throws the knife away. At this point I'm considering taking him up on his offer, I have six mates and their partners in the surrounding tents, but there are still a dozen scousers nearby, and it would be a really bad idea.

"Nah mate, fancy a smoke instead?"

This continued for a while, until he finally twigged I would not fight, so he changed his approach.

"Got any money, give it to me and I'll go away" - great, we now have the world's slowest mugging.

"We don't have any money, sure you don't fancy a smoke?"

"You must have, give it to me and I'll go"

At this point Rod chips in, "Here's a fiver", which is grabbed with haste.

Instead of departing immediately, our guest gives us both a hug, apologies for his behaviour, and claims he'd taken a bad 'E', and then disappears.

So I feel I have empirical evidence for using the term "Thieving Scouse Bastard" as this is the only time I've been mugged.
(Scooby Don't, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:05, 3 replies)

Leeds Festival 2001*
Things were going amazingly well. My girlfriend, Ailsa, and I had travelled to the festival and miraculously managed to meet up with the rest of our mates on the site. A spot of land had been secured and our circle of tents erected (Imagine my delight when I saw that Ging had set his tent up to the right of me and he was also in possession of one of those metal Jack Daniels presentation cases stuffed to the brim with weed - pass the duchie on the left hand side indeed). The sun was beaming down upon us, various chemicals were already being passed round and many an ale was opened and consumed.

We partied, danced, drank, gurned, fucked and smoked our little socks off for a couple of days in bliss with only the usual minor wounds and occasional light drug freak outs (luckily nothing like the festival where J was convinced everyone was trying to kill him)

Then we went to see Green Day. Not that I'm blaming Green Day for what happened. Mike, Billie & Tré played well, we bopped about in a pharmaceutically enhanced frenzy and the band thanked us and left the stage.

We, and the thousands of other people around us, turned and began to make our way back to the campsite, merrily chatting, singing and generally being completely mullered. My mate Bucky was having a laugh with Ailsa and they were taking turns giving each other a piggy back whilst running around. Now Bucky's only a little chap whereas Ailsa enjoyed a fuller figure... this played an important part.

As Bucky was galloping along with Ailsa giggling atop him (quiet down at the back) something caused him to lose his footing. Though he valiantly attempted to keep himself upright the combination of the pace he had achieved and the lady upon him conspired to drag him earthwards, and he twisted when he fell so as to avoid face planting into the ground. This unfortunately meant that when they landed Ailsa's ankle was twisted and crushed betwixt the ground and the tumbling bodies. The sickening crack amazingly sounded over the general hubbub of thousands of unwashed and inebriated people.

Fuck! Ailsa's ankle was a mess. A mate was sent forth to summon medical help and soon a stretcher bore her to the first aid tent. Quickly it was confirmed that it was a serious bit of breakage and would require the attentions of a hospital. Great.

So there we sat for around 2 hours in the grotty first aid tent watching the various physically and mentally damaged people being brought in, generally given a cup of tea and sent on their way.

I, still pilling out of my mind, attempted to keep Ailsa's spirits up by chatting with her and dicking around in the tent until the ambulance arrived.

Oh and if I could say one thing to the kind gentleman who assessed the damage it would be "I know Bic Biro's are temperamental buggers and sometimes you do have to scribble back and forth a bit before the ink will start to flow but when you're marking an appendage so the hospital will know where the damage is, do your scribbling on a bit of paper and not on the flesh over my girlfriend's shattered ankle"

At the hospital, after many more hours waiting it was ascertained that her ankle was fucked (I believe that was the term) and would require reconstruction and loads of nice pins. The festival had ended for us.

At least so I thought. Ailsa's family drove down to stay with her while she was awaiting surgery and after debating it for a bit I was told I had to return to the festival for the last day as I needed to collect all of our possessions, pack the tent up and all that shit.

As I was leaving, Ailsa called me back to her bedside and whispered sweet words into my ear, "If you have a look in the bottom of my bag you'll find £60, a full bottle of vodka and 5 pills. Have as much fun as you can and I'll see you back in Newcastle with my bionic ankle"

With that I kissed her deeply, wished her luck for her surgery, thanked her family for coming and headed off into the night to fulfil my destiny.



*Not 2004 as I claimed in a comment on Berk's wonderful story last week. No wonder I didn't see you sitting at the back during Green Day, I was there 3 years earlier - What a cock jockey!
(Rotimer was micturating windward at, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:40, 4 replies)

Desperate times
call for desperate measures, and also bring forth resourcefulness...

I found myself in the unhappy position of having to use a Glastonbury festival toilet that had been gathering sewage and fermenting it in warm sunshine for three days in one of the busiest areas of the site.

This was the type of toilet that you stand nearby (although not too near) for a while, watching people pluck up the courage to enter, backing out again, shoulders heaving as they retch... trying not to look, but unable to stop looking, at the glistening mounds of multi-brown hued poo which quiver all over and crawl and buzz with their own little ecosystems of flies and maggots. The floor a self-perpetuating buildup of slimy substances, some part digested and deposited by stomachs too weak for festival toilets, some simply dropped by people as they recoil in horror before running screaming away. The smell of industrial strength ammonia catching in the throat and stinging as it peels layers off the eyes and lungs.

The type of toilet that you anticipate, and take a deep breath from a safe distance, and hold it while you forcefully squeeze the pee out as hard as you can in terror at the thought that your gas exchange isn't up to standard after all that smoking and you might actually have to take a deep breath of solid toilet air.

Eventually my need became too great to consider other options, such as Billy Connolly-esque incontinence trousers fashioned crudely from my shorts and some string.

There was no question of there being any toilet paper in it. There was a fascinating array of substances (which may have included toilet paper, but presented rather differently from the usual way) and I didn't dwell too long on them as I hovered as high over the "seat" as I could without merely remaining upright and pissing on my feet, balancing precariously on the toes of one foot and the heel of the other to maximise my use of the least soiled areas of "floor", trying to ignore the distressing tickling sensation as the flies buzzed my ladyparts.

So what's a girl to do?

Men, you don't realise how lucky you are to have a penis.* This was before the invention of the SheWee, remember.

I would have actually considered wiping my flange on a fiver, if I'd had any money.

But Lo! I had an actual moment of gleeful eureka as I thought of the one item I had about my person. Hurrah for smoking!

And so it happened that I found myself grateful to be rubbing the inner piece of foil paper from a packet of Camel on my bits.**

*Actually I suspect you do.
**What, did you think I used a Rizla?***
***Of course I would, if I'd had one.
( warmfuzzies Isn't here, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 21:04, 4 replies)

Stalked by My Chemical Romance
Leeds Festival 2006. On one of the days, we went to scour some of the stages. My friend Nessa wanted to hang about the NME signing tent? Why? My Chemical Romance were signing autographs, and she wanted to be front of the queue. I checked - they'd be arriving at 3pm, and it had just gone 11am. I left, and she got pissed off, telling her I should wait with her.

So, after four hours of watching, you know, good bands, I walked passed Nessa, still at the front of the queue. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Getting some famous peoples' autographs". "But.. you went off! I've been here four hours!". "Nah, I just told you to hold my place". She was seething, but let me cut in line. She mentioned that I didn't have anything that they could sign. Noticing that an NME Maggot was trying to collect email addresses for subscriptions, I asked to get one of his subscription forms for the band to sign the back of. Problem solved!

The first guy (who Wikipedia tells me is called Gerard Way) took a while to sign mine. So, I did what I usually do, and started small talk. "So, Mr. My Chemical Romance Man, are you enjoying Leeds?"

"Yeah" he screeches, with a very whiny American tone. "Well, we were here last year but we were in a much smaller tent and peopledidn'treallyknowofusbackthen..." - the guy starts talking at the speed of a six year old when she's just seen a rainbow. Noticing that the line had moved along, I had to end the conversation with Gerard and move to the next one.

Let's just say the next one was called Mikey. I'm using that name as Wikipedia lists me the members of MCR, but I can't really remember which one it was. He quickly signed his autograph, but Nessa was still swooning over another member of the band thus holding up the line. So, I made more small talk. "So... any news on the next album?"

Suddenly Gerard - who is currently signing the album owned by a 13 year old - stops what he is doing, pushes Mikey aside, makes eye contact with me and says -

"Well, yeah, we like, totally wanted to release it now but the recordcompanytoldustostarttouringtopromotethealbu-"

"Right! Okay!" I say quite loudly. He seems to be on some sort of speed.

I move onto the third member of the band. I know now not to make any small talk for fear Gerard may start speaking again. The third guy asks me my name. "Friz" I reply. "With one z".

But, I say 'z' like 'zed'. This excites Gerard who stops what he's doing again - leans over Mikey to talk to me to say-

"Ooooohmygod! We've been here three months already and nobody has said "zed" yet! How British! How quaint! Zed! We only ever hear Zee!"

I stare at him with blank eyes. I blink. I move onto #4 and #5 without saying a word.

===

Later that day, I'm off to see Kaiser Chiefs. Gerard Way is eating a burger. He stops me, briefly recalls me for two seconds, forms a smile on his face, and yells...

"FRAZ!".

"Close one, mate" I say, walking off.
(__, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 18:17, 2 replies)

Splodgenessabounds
Went to the Butlins Alternative Music Festival in Minehead, my first and only visit to a holiday camp. Not quite sure why it was called that as it featured reformed punk bands: The Damned, 999, UK Subs, Chelsea, Glen Matlock oh and Bad Manners.

Butlins in their wisdom decided that the camp should be open as normal with regular guests: chavs, old dears and families with kids all mingling with the couple of thousand punks. This in itself wasn't a problem only perhaps they should have warned the old dears that there would be no Redcoats singing Frank Sinatra in the main ballroom...

The first band up was Eater. "Fucking 'ell we're playing at Butlins" proclaimed the singer as they opened the set and he continued to ad lib as many "fuck"s and "cunt"s into the microphone as he could between songs, deliberately over-doing it for a laugh. One by one the old dears, the families and their kids filed out of the room tutting and muttering "it's disgusting".

The sound system there is fantastic. It was designed to make Shane Ritchie sound like Elvis so putting a decent band through it sounded incredible. The performances by Bad Manners and The Damned were the best I've ever heard and I've seen 100s of bands. Bad Manners were so good, so tight that the whole floor bounced in time to their music, you couldn't help but dance to it.

"A punk festival at Butlins, that can't pass without incident" I hear you say and you're right, Spoldgenessanounds providing the entertainment. Firstly their set. They decided to repeat the following words over and over whilst playing a Status Quo riff:
"A boring song
A boring song
I'm going to sing you a boring song
A boring song
A boring song
And it goes on and on and on and on and on"
This went on for about 20 minutes until the staff shut the power off. They carried on, just the drummer and the saxophone player so the staff pulled the curtain across the stage. It all went quiet then a big cheer went up as the saxophone player jumped through the curtains and carried on playing on his own until he was dragged from the stage.

Later that evening there was a big commotion on the site, the police and fire brigade had been called, one of the huts was on fire. Turned out Splodgenessabounds had set light to it and then fled from the site.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:12, 4 replies)

The difference between warm beer and cold beer.
V 2008. My first festival. As a 30 year old I'd spent the best part of 13 years avoiding festivals. Why sleep in a tent, not shower and pay through the nose to watch loads of bands, only a couple of who I actually like.

Anyway, the weekend was in full swing as Kings Of Leon were due on stage. By way of much barging, wriggling and "excuse me-ing" we got some way near the front.

The weather all weekend had been baking hot. Blue skies had been the mainstay all day, and as I dare say with all festivals, each and every person was steaming drunk and / or high.

All of a sudden a massive disgruntled shout of "ewwww!" came from the throng of people in front of us, just seconds after we'd seen a half-full plastic glass of beer bounced off the back of someones head and soaked his surrounding friends.

Obviously, when this happens about twenty yards in front of you, it's the funniest thing in the world, and we were laughing heartily... until the person behind me got hit by a second glass and I found myself drenched head to toe in cold lager.

"Gross" I said, to no-one in particular.

"It's not that bad mate," said the random guy next to me, "if it's cold it means it's only beer. It's when it's warm you need to worry!"

I laughed at the fairly considered response, figuring it made sense, and was just about to agree when a second glass hit me in the back.

"Ewww! It's gone down my leg." moaned my mate Tasha.

"Yeah, it's all over my arm hun." I replied, looking to my left to see the random guy wiping the contents off of his face.

All of a sudden all three of us realised the same thing. Hand on leg, arm and face respectively, we all said in unison: "It's warm..."

And people pay through the nose for this treatment every year!
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Thu 11 Jun 2009, 8:53, 1 reply)

SCORE
Another Roskilde one (if you haven’t been – go, the Danes are fucking mental!!!).

Walking into the festival sight one afternoon I see a row of pissed up Danish lads, sat on deck chairs, cheering loudly whenever an attractive member of the opposite sex walked by. Then, in the style of judges at an Olympic diving event, they’d hold up a board to give the passerby a mark out of ten. They appeared to be keeping score on a seperate peice of paper, attempting to rate the hottest hotty at Roskilde. This tickled me.

Just as my group and I are trudging closer a fella wearing a tracksuit top and bottoms legs it over from the milling crowd and stands defiently infront of the row of drunken pervs. There’s a bit of a stand off. Maybe his girlfriend had been the object of their letching – maybe they’d given her a shit score. Then, in one quick flash, the fella whips down his jogging pants, strips out of his top, and stands there, hands on hips, stark bollock naked accept for his trainers and rather fetching dayglo green socks. He jiggles his cock round for a bit and starts thrusting in and out, his pale arse bobbing round, as he proceeded to fuck the invisible woman. And he was fucking her hard.

There was a slight pause while the lads in the chairs considered this latest developement. Then, as one, they raised their boards.

The fucker only went and got 10 out of 10 from each of them.

(I’d have said he was a 5 at best – his cock was absolutely tiny).
( SpankyHanky, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 16:25, 2 replies)

Glastonbury behind the scenes
I worked for Oxfam at Glastonbury in both 95 and 97. Instead of employing loads of stewards, what the organisers did was donate a load to Oxfam who in turn would recruit volunteers to do things like direct traffic, take tickets at the gate and stamp hands on the way out. (or direct ticketless people to the latest area where we heard the wall had fallen over)

The benefit was that you got to the festival for nothing, got a field to camp in that was a bit quieter than the main throng and got a few free meals in exchange for three shifts on the gates or car parks, only one of which would be during the festival itself.

We also got to wear a big yellow bin bag and see some pretty scary attempts at getting in for nothing. AT one gate there was a huge collection of ropes, grappling hooks and home made wall climbing equipment that the security guards had collected in the last hour alone!

One night we were over near a section of the inside wall when a few bags came flying over. This was usual, they'd chuck over any luggage then attempt to scramble over. We weren't security and were under strict instuctions not to apprehend anyone, so if they made it we usually gave them a cheer or marks out of ten.

Security patrolled in land rovers that drove in a circle round the site between the outer and inner walls, so some unlucky punters who had made it over wall one, chucked thier luggage over wall two, suddenly found themselves in the headlights and had to scarper with nothing but the shirts on their backs.

This time though, the luggage wasn't followed by people, but by a huge dog that had obviously been lobbed over. It soared over the wall, ears flapping, and a slightly surprised look on its face. We then heard the roar of an engine, some swearing and some footsteps running away. They had chucked over the dog first and got caught! I'm sure the poor thing had a great time on its own though. I saw it a few times, happily getting fed by most people who passed it, don't know if it ever got re-united with its owner though, but if you had been thrown over a huge security wall by your master, would you want to go back?!


Other notable moments were ...

A welsh guy turning away Page and Plant, because he'd 'never heard of the buggers.'

Constantly walking into the slam door toilets to see a girl perched on the seat, open to the world

Using some of the found rope to tie a drunk bloke to the chair he had fallen asleep on, then watching him wake up and stagger off for a piss, not knowing it was still on his back

Smoking something I shouldn't have in 95 and falling asleep in my tent, with my bare legs outside in the sun for most of the afternoon.

Turning up in 97 with a small backpack full of shorts and tee-shirts, and a hope that the weather would improve.

Giving people tips as to how to improve the UV stamp they'd tried to draw on the back of their hand.

I'll watch it on the telly this year!
( Cheeses of Nazareth Where's Captain Kirk? www.whereiskirk.com, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 13:49, 4 replies)

Can you play "way over there"?
Reading 2003 I think. The path to the arena was lined with tents, some of which had aspiring musicians doing their best to 'entertain' the crowds. At one such juncture, a chap in a deerstalker hat played his guitar. On our many trips to and from the tent, he would always be there strumming away enthusiastically. He was so reliable we used him as a kind of aural beacon at night to find our way back to the tent.

Sadly, he was shit.

On the last night, we staggered back towards our tent, listening for his tuneless twanging to point us in the right direction as usual. Alas, nothing! We eventually figured out the correct route using other landmarks, and upon walking past the fellow noticed he was sulking in front of a small fire, hat in his hands... and poking out of the fire was the smouldering neck of his guitar.

Vigilantes had silenced him. I felt quite sad.
( chart cat has an itch, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 3:05, 2 replies)

Going all the way
Was driving up to Brum last summer to visit friends when I pulled into a service station and noticed an unsual placard for a hitchiker trying his luck in the coach lane:

'Need ride to Leeds Festival. Will suck myself off in return :)'

Confused, I suggested it would be more effective if he offered to suck them off for a lift.

'Na mate, that'd be gay.'

He was gone by the time I got back. Maybe he found some perverted trucker to lend a hand. I personally find the whole thing a little hard to swallow.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Tue 9 Jun 2009, 17:16, Reply)

errrrwhy
I have a stereo, I have a kitchen, I have a bathroom, I have a comfy bed. It has a nubile blond thing in it.
Why would I want to spend ANY time in a muddy field, listening to overcranked speakers surrounded by overcranked fuckwits, using plastic boxs full of shit and piss and vomit to take a crap in, eating fucked up shit and having to sleep in a fucking TENT? Why? Well? Why?
Festivals. Don't get it. Sorry.
You're all fucked up. Take more drugs and stop it. Just STOP!
Muppets.
It's like going to a football match. Why? When you could watch it on telly without the pissed cunt screaming racist abuse over your shoulder. And the shit food. etc.
WHY?
Muppets.
(godisdove I like cheese, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 22:18, 39 replies)

Festivals? Fucking BORING!
Well, at least according to someone I know.

It was a few years ago now, we'd gone round to a couple we were friends with at the time for a meal and general evening of socialising. I say socialising; actually, what happened was that we had a bit of a chat over dinner and then Brad decided to put Return of the King on the DVD player. So, we sat with arses numbing for three and a bit hours whilst the Tolkien epic of small people with odd expressions (fearful grimace or monged out happiness) played out on the enormous plasma screen before us. Barely a word was uttered as Brad and his missus sat enraptured in the unfolding events (and each other), whilst we sat there thinking "well this is all well and good but if we wanted to watch the telly we'd have stayed at home. Or possibly skipped the telly and shagged instead".

Eventually the epic CGI-fest ended and the DVD was switched off... to the highlights of Glastonbury. Ooh, let's watch a bit of this. Cue conversation about what it must be like. The only festival I've been to was Reading in 1990, and to be fair it was a cracking weekend. Our host's daughter wondered dreamily what being at Glastonbury must be like; her mother assured her she would probably love it and who knows; maybe one day she'll get to go.

Brad sat huffing and puffing, tutting at the screen and listening to the general conversation until he could take no more.

"It's crap", he stated.

"Why's that, Brad?"

"Whey, it just is. Divven't see the appeal. Load of people standing in a field wavin' their arms in the air. It's boring!"

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is. IT'S BORING!"

"DG, was Reading boring?"

"Nah, had a great time. Loads of mates with us, music and beer; what more could you want?"

"See?"

"IT'S BORING!"

Some gentle cajoling followed. "How do you know it's boring? You've never been to a festival.

"I'm watching one now, and it's BORING!"

"Yes, but the music's not your type. You can't say that festivals are boring if you've never been to one."

By this point, he's becoming apopleptic, his voice raising all the time "YES AH HAVE!"

"You, been to a festival? Where?"

A brief pause, and then a statement that rendered the rest of us in fits of hysterics in the living room...

"CRESSWELL!"

Cresswell, basically, is a tiny little village on the Northumberland coast. Beautiful beach, a few houses and a caravan park, but essentially fuck all there, and certainly not a hub of festival activity. We couldn't stop pissing ourselves, which only served to make Brad more incandescent with rage; he thought festivals were shit and boring and therefore we must be shit and boring for even contemplating going to one, let alone actually attending one. I thought that the pulsating vein in his forehead was going to make a bid for freedom at one point. Or perhaps snake around his throat and throttle him

The sweary one and I left after about five minutes. After another couple of years the friendship dwindled, basically because they were so wrapped up in each other that the only time we ever saw them was if we went round to their's to watch the telly. The last straw came when they didn't even acknowledge our wedding invite.

Fuck 'em.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 8 Jun 2009, 19:57, 5 replies)

Shower O' Piss
During one of the first of my many visits to Greenbelt (I'm not a christian,I just like a more relaxed festival experience) I was familiarising myself with the area and memorising the late night route to the shitters, being a crowded and "family friendly" festival pissing on the racecourse is not an option (unless you want to be responsible for the lead runner in the Cheltenham Festival to slip up on your warm puddles).
Around the closest portaloos to my tent are some other cubicles, which on first inspection are for a service called "Golden Showers", even more to my surprise i see a line of people making bookings. Elderly women, children and even nuns seemed to be taking an interest in this very organised festival watersport. Only on the double take do I re-read the sign and make it out to say "Gloden Showers", damn my dyslexia.

Either way, whoever thought of hiring this company and then placing these public conveniences next to the public conveniences was a genius or a fool.

if you dont believe me you can hire your own at www.igloucestershire.co.uk/profile/441848/Tewkesbury/Gloden-Mobile-Showers-For-Hire/
( Jimminy_rickets was at Grills Gone Wild on, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 16:40, 2 replies)

Stupid Ladies Toilets
A few years ago at the Big Day Out I made the mistake of waiting to queue for toilets when I was already busting for a wee.

And then I made the mistake of queuing in a line with only one toilet at the end.

And then there was no toilet paper in it.

And then I saw that was because all the toilet paper had been used to fill up the bowl so that the toilet wouldn't flush.

And then I did an exceptionally large poo.

And then I looked at it, sitting there on its comfy bed of other people's used toilet paper, having just wiped my bum with an EFTPOS receipt from my pocket. It kind of looked like it was sleeping.

And then I washed my hands and left.

And then my friend used the toilet after me.

And she wasn't like a really good friend who I wouldn't mind seeing my sleeping poo.

And so I felt embarrassed around her for the rest of the day.
(Mr._F is not actually a man- this username is a lie!, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 4:23, 1 reply)

Glastonbury tickets
A blatant pearoast, but I haven't posted in a while so need to ease back in gently.

Growing up in Wiltshire in the 90's wasn't all that great. Clubbing was restricted to the larger cities and generally there was fuck all to do. Except in the summer when every year without fail, we went to Glastonbury.

Going on a regular basis meant we knew our way around the local area, particularly the nearby fields. As the festival got increasingly popular it became more and more difficult to source tickets and one year (1999) we didn't get them.

Fucksocks.

About three hours into day one of the festival I get a call from my mate Rich who tells me to get my arse down to Glastonbury because he has got himself a load of tickets. Slightly wary of how he got them or if they were fakes I turned up, got in and had a great day; Rich remaining tight lipped as to how he managed to get the tickets.

Fast forward to Sunday morning and I'm queuing for the toilet when I start to overhear a conversation in front of me. A couple were talking about a scam that someone was running where tickets had been stolen. Much discussion later and I find out exactly how Rich and accomplice got the tickets.

What they had done was to open the gate of a nearby field and print and put up a large sign stating 'Glastonbury Festival Parking'. Armed with more official looking arrow signs, tape, ropes and tables, together with a convincing marshal's outfit, they had set themselves up a fake entrance to the festival and after people had parked, they were exchanging people's tickets for worthless 'entry passes' and sending them off through another gate to get thoroughly lost in the Somerset countryside.

Rich denied all but he knew that countryside better than anyone I know and given that he is now serving a prison sentence for fraud I am more certain than ever it was him. Needless to say I did feel more than a little guilty at being in on a stolen ticket but it was a great festival.
(quantum raspberry quizzically quashing Quebecans, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 2:49, Reply)

Bestival 2008

As I am sure many of you are aware going to the toilet at a festival in the middle of the night can be an ardous journey, mainly involving tripping over guy ropes.

To solve this problem my friend Matt had come up with a genius solution - a funnel, a pipe and an empty plastic bottle. He was very proud of himself.

First night we all got very drunk, as you do, and then all retired to bed. Matt actively looking forward to putting his peeing device into action.

At what must have been around 4am - I was awoken by screams from Matt's Girlfriend - she seemed very angry. I went back to sleep.

The next morning we all awoke to find Matt looking very sheepish.

Matt then explained what had happened. He had woken up still quite drunk and wanting a piss, he was very excited about his peeing device so placed his penis in the funnel and then urinated - copiusly.

It was only when his girlfriend started screaming did it slowly dawn on him what was happening, but by then it was far too late.

Matt had forgotten to put the other end of the plastic tube in the bottle creating what was essentially a urine hose pipe within the confines of a tent.

Scarmbling to try and get the open end of the pipe into the bottkle only made thigs worse as he directed the stream of pisss in every single direction but the right one. He soaked his girlfriend, both their sleeping bags and all their clothes with his piss before he finished.

He was not popular and their tent smelled vaguely of piss for the rest of the festival.

(The next day a man ran into our tent at full speed and fell on me in the middle of the night - it almost gave me a heart attack and detroyed the tent - not happy)
(MrHungry, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 18:42, 2 replies)

I had sex in a tent once.
Then I stowed the tent away in my Honda Accord and went home.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 17:11, 1 reply)

More a suggestion than an answer
Oi Oi Rob/Scary/other lovely b3ta mods...

why don't we have a b3ta festival...

...kitties, CDCs and music for everyone?

Twicey...
(twiceydrinker hmmm is it pint time?, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:35, 9 replies)

Leeds 2007
I got pissed on whilst watching the Klaxons.


It was better than the Klaxons.
(i should have joined myspace, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:34, Reply)

Dwarf tossing
This is not my story but I'll try my best to tell it as it was first related to me.

My mate was at Download one year happily headbanging away during a Slipknot set with a few of his mates. Looking around he sees this tiny figure in an adjacent moshpit throwing his weight around with some hardcore metalheads. On closer inspection it turns out to be a dwarf. A tiny, well-built, adrenalin-fuelled dwarf charging into any of the huge meatheads (I mean meatheads) that came too close to him. It was obvious that this is what he lived for as my mate describes him as being 'ripped-to-shit' and with a possessed gleam in his eyes.

Now this sight would be funny enough but for what was to come. Slipknot apparently have a habit of getting everyone to sit down for the start of one of their songs. So today was no exception and on command everybody sat down ready to jump back up at the relavent point. My mate and his mates all sit down and just infront of him the dwarf also takes a seat. As soon as the tiny man's arse touched the floor those surrounding him began to bunch up around him and started grabbing on to him. He was apparently looking around in a state of confusion and yet approval as the music crescendoed, the mass of people surrounding him began to bounce slightly and when the beat finally dropped everyone jumped to their feet and this poor guy hurtled cartwheeling high into the air. My mate tells me that he never saw where he landed and didn't spot him for the rest of the festival.

Length? Not sure, but I'll bet it's surprising.
( Raindance Work is inversely proportional to post-count, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:15, Reply)

A friend in need...
Reading '92. Sleeping in a car (I made a last-minute decision to go, so I guess I should be grateful).

Woke early on the Sunday morning - to tell the truth, I hadn't slept well - and went off to find some breakfast.

Wandering round aimlessly, I passed a tent and said hi to the guy sat outside, he asked if I fancied a coffee, so I sat down and had a chat with him for half an hour or so over caffeine and a couple of ciggies.

It struck me that he was asking some reasonably personal questions, without being too pushy, and by the time we said our goodbyes I was in a much better frame of mind than I had been before sitting down to chat with him.

On the way back to the car, I turned round and saw the Samaritans flag above the tent I'd just been drinking coffee outside.

Not that I was their target audience, but I have to say the guy did a great job of cheering me up in a fairly down period of my life.
(Capo, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 23:47, Reply)

La Tomatina
Don't, for the love of God, go to this festival.

The worlds largest food fight...La Tomatina is held in a tiny village called Bunol near Valencia. They defrost thousands and thousands of spanish tomatoes and pour them into the streets of the village using large trucks that barely fit down the narrow roads.

Being young and baulchy, I threw myself into it with youthful vigour. My excitement soon turned to horror as I crammed my way into the body filled streets.

First of all. The locals take pleasure in pouring buckets of water from their balconies onto the unsuspecting masses. Some even have hoses! The first time its quite refreshing (in 40 degree heat) the 20th time, it can get annoying!

Secondly, there are hoardes of burly spanish men who take it upon themselves to rip the shirts of the backs of unsuspecting tourists...male or female. Did I mention, the shirts are wet too. Have you ever had a wet shirt ripped off your back? It fucking hurts!

Then as the truck approaches, you have are forced onto the pavement with thousands of people and as it passes you become knee high in tomato juice and commence throwing. The texture is like stepping into the kebab you ate last night AFTER you have ejected it from you system and added rotting tomato sauce. The smell is similarly unbearable. The activity is dangerous and frantic. Also, some of the tomatoes are not properly defrosted and these particular tomatoes can cause serious injury.

Now half naked, bruised and covered in tomato juice you make your way out of the village only to discover that you have lost a shoe and the other is now unwearable.
Whats more; as the 40 degree sun rays burn tomato juice into your skin you realise that if you added a bit of mozarella, you would infact be a pizza. Only its a sweaty, out of date pizza.

Having said all this I loved it as it really was a once in a life-time experience.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:05, Reply)

Another question that I cannot contribute to.
Due to the fact that I've avoided festivals like a mutant plague of zombies. Due, mainly, to the following reasons:
I hate people.
I hate loud noise/music.
I like sleep.

Nope, give me an old man pub, with a good landlord and some friends and I'm content.
( gareth_alien will be human again at, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:18, 14 replies)

Festival Celebrity Encounter
At V a few years back in the VIP backstage bit.

I'd jammily managed to get myself a wristband, meaning a free bar, food, and proper toilets. Not exactly a purist's festival experience, but I wasn't going to complain.

Anyway, late on in the afternoon me and my friend had gone and had a wander, seen some bands, and settled back into the tent for some more sustenance before venturing out again. I was sitting on the grass finishing my burger when a hub-bub starts. I turned around to see what's going on, and there coming through the gate are Billie Piper and David Tennant, along with what I suppose you could class as an entourage, since they're famous, although it may well have just been mates. I had a look for second and went back to my beer.

This was just after Doctor Who had got going again, and inevitably, since the two of them were there together, loads of people were taking the opportunity to ask for autographs, get photos, or just go and say hello. They seemed to both be very nice and relaxed about it, and after a bit people just got on with things and left them to relax.

Anyway, a bit later I decide to get up and go for a wander to the nearest bar, intent on filling myself with as much free lager as possible since I have been provided with a comfortable loo in which to expel it. I got myself up, rather gracelessly, and lumbered over, but there's a couple of people standing having a chat right in front of the bar. I just wander over behind them and say 'Excuse me'

Nothing.

(louder and more impatiently)'Excuse me!'

The girl turns round, and sure enough, it's Billie. It took me a moment to take in just how massive her mouth is as she beamed a very nice smile at me.

Billie 'Hello!'

I was impressed with her professionalism in being so nice and obliging and obviously willing to deal with some drunken oaf who'd just bowled over and interrupted her. Even though, priorities....

Me: 'Er... can you move aside just for a second please, I'm trying to get to the bar?'

Billie 'Oh... Yeah of course'.

And that was that. Don't know if she was disappointed or relieved, really...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:01, Reply)

Allow me to recommend this:


Garmin Etrex. Portable GPS unit. Costs about £80 new or a bit less off ebay. Accurate to 10ft anywhere in the world. Mark the position of your tent (takes about 2 seconds), then you can find your way back from wherever you end up.

I took mine to France back in April when I went skiing there - However lost in town I got (very, very lost when I was out drinking) this little device got me back to the hotel every time. It also does speed, distance traveled and (for some reason) the best time to go hunting at that particular location.
( MatJ LOOK, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 22:58, 1 reply)

Festival parking.
This happened at V97 (I think).

I was quite happy with the space I'd found for my car: though the field was big, I was close to a huge oak and a pylon. I took a detailed mental map using these consipicuous landmarks so that I'd be able to find the tank-like Volvo lickety-split when the time to go home came around.

And what should happen during the festival?

Only that someone came along and uprooted and replanted the tree, and re-routed the national grid. My meticulous triangulation was thus utterly redundant, and it took me about an hour to find where I'd parked.

I bet the bastards did it on purpose.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 11:00, 1 reply)

Cocksucker
During my first visit to Reading fest back in 2004, I naively lost the rest of my friends in a drunk filled stupor, only to bump into a crowd of people cheering someone on.

Being a nosey sort, I barged my way through to have have a look at what was going on, to be greeted with a very flexible young man gobbling down three quarters of his cock.

I went back to my tent a changed woman.
(thants, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 22:58, 2 replies)

hhmmm.
Having a poo in the 'long drop' at latitude last year (big latrines, with a 6 foot drop to a pile of rotting faeces), I achieved splashback.

Well, I say achieved...
(kccat does NOT look like Joe 90, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 19:13, 4 replies)

EXIT Festival
It's outside Novi Sad in Serbia. My black friend was the main attraction, all the locals wanted a picture with him, like he was a beefeater.
(Paper_clip You are hearing me talk, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 16:18, 6 replies)

Defiling a hollywood star
Glastonbury 1999 played host to Keanu Reeves and his "band" Dogstar. They'd only got as far as 10 seconds into the first song before coming under attack by a hail of bottles.

The most satisfying moment of my life thus far was watching in stoned delight as my own piss filled bottle performed a graceful arc up to the stage, before emptying its contents over the front of Keanu's trousers.

Looking back, I'm not proud. Well. Maybe just a little bit.
( rofl harris, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 12:24, 5 replies)

At the Greenman
A few years back when it was still at Baskerville Hall in the Brecons. We were staying in the Hall itself (being part of the production crew) but our mate wasn't - and he'd forgotton his tent.

We conspired to sneak him past the militant hotel security ("everybody not staying here, get the fuck out after 10pm") and got him back to one of the larger rooms.

Unfortunately, we were a little too loud with the nightly drinking session and our little party caught the attention of said Nazi fucks.

They hammered on the door at about 3am. Our illegal hotel guest freaked. But instead of hiding behind a curtain or under the bed, he sprinted for the window.

We looked on in terror as he flung the thing open, six storeys up, and climbed out onto the ledge.

But he didn't stay there. Oh no.

He dangled himself from the ledge, with only his fingers to keep him secure. Then screamed, "CLOSE THE WINDOW".

For some reason we did. Then we let the Nazis in.

They reprimanded us for a full 45 minutes.

All the while we're thinking about the poor guy hanging on by his rapidly freezing fingertips outside.

The Nazis left.

We rushed to the window.

He was gone.

Not, as you'd expect, lying dead on the floor sixty feet below.

Just gone.

I didn't see him again for the whole weekend. Though when we did eventually catch up, he said he had no memory of climbing out the window or what he did after.

The mystery continues...
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 11:45, 1 reply)

you, you with your festival drivel -
these tales have become tedious and monotonous. I am hosting my own festival. People who like to ramble on for hours about drug or toilet experiences won't be allowed in. It's an elite festival for, basically, me. There will be just the right amount of mud, no drunk stranger in my sleeping bag that I have to chase out with a fork I've heated on the disposable barbecue, sunshine (rain permissable at night), free noodles, and plenty of decent booze (no cider). It will, in essence, be one of my usual camping trips but with Pooflake and Captain Placid headlining.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 10:48, 4 replies)

"when festivals were still good"
I do wish people would stop saying this in posts. I happen to think that festivals are still good. I go to Reading Festival each year & have a great time, & no doubt I will continue to do so for a good while yet. Yes, festivals are more expensive now, but so is everything. Doesn't mean they are all shit.
That's what I think anyway.
(Katurian, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 20:50, 4 replies)

The Spiritual Dolphin
Had my first proper festival experience at Reading either 08 or 09.. though i was a smoker i had never done anything harder but was with a good friend who although younger was a bit more experienced and i did my first mdma hit.

we had got some of those proper star wars lightsabers and some ponchos and were just starting to come up when i saw the helium balloon guy. loved dolphins had to buy the dolphin balloon. properly came up to roni size in the dance tent with my light saber and my dolphin balloon and it was AMAZING, there can be nothing like your first hit of mdma it just washes your brain out in the best way. anyways we started on our trip for real.

we had a bunch of hash and went to work selling it using the dolphin as the hook, by this time i had tied it to my hat and we were walking around asking people 'the spiritual dolphin wants to know if you want some smoke'. after a couple of fields we were getting aproached by people who had been told to 'look for the spiritual dolphin'. it was clearly visible floating above the tents attached to my hat. we were on a blessed trip coz we never got approached by any cops just lots of punters. at some point i lost my shoes. however we found a guy selling strawberry tabs, i thought in for a penny in for a pound and we both did some, it was my mates first time for acid too.

we continued working our way through the fields till we came across this starry eyed girl who laughing a lot but not really saying much latched on to us. we managed to get that her name was Rachel but when ever we tried to talk to her she just laughed and giggled. rachel had decided we were going to look after her on her trip and she just tagged along with us occasionaly linking arms with us but generally just staring about and laughing.

me and my mate realised it was dark and we hadnt even got to the arena yet. thinking everything was just so magical that we must be in a movie we laughingly stumbled into the main arena with rachel in tow, as we passed security i remember looking down and thinking that i had somehow found my shoes and socks back, on closer inspection my mate confirmed that it was in fact a sock of mud and dust that i was wearing which prompted more laughter.

it was Blur!!

they were playing universal and i was just star struck i couldnt believe i was this high listening to music this amazing live. rachel in a flashing moment of lucidity suddenly said she was cold and my mate galantly gave her his hoody. we were wondering through the crowd when rachel shrieked and ran over to a group of girls. we sat down with them and they were some of her friends. we nipped back to the tents to get some more stuff and when we came back they were gone along with my mates hoody. we put it down to experience and my mate never expects to see his favourite hoody again.

for the rest of the festy the spiritual dolphin was the marker for our tent and was regulraly revered.

Fast forward to the monday and we are packing up after a stonking weekend. We see this guy walking about holding a 6 ft pole adorned with toilet rolls streaming in the wind. He is shouting 'rachel', rachel', we look at each other and run over to this guy. It turns out to be the same rachel he is looking for, she apparently had done some DMT on the saturday and it just totally tripped her out. we follow him back to their base camp where she had returned after seeing us but before walking off in to the night, and low and behold before she did so she left the hoody with a friend. mate got the hoody back but we never did find out what happened to rachel our starry eyed groupie.

rachel hope you are okay, the spiritual dolphin will never forget you

1st post, thanks for your time
(creepy jesus, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 18:50, 3 replies)

Korean Air
Aside from the requisite festival stories I think everyone here seems to share (mainly drug-induced), my fondest festival memory comes from the first I ever went to one: Reading '97.

I went with three friends, one a slight Korean fellow called Byung. It was his idea to go as Metallica were headlining and Byung was a massive fan. In the middle of their set Byung decides to do a spot of crowd-surfing, so I give him a leg up and off he goes towards the front, all 5 stone of him bouncing up and down happily across the crowd, doing the devil-horns 'rawk' sign with both hands and screaming "METARRICAAA!!" at the top of his voice.

Half an hour later and he still hasn't returned. The band are just starting "Enter Sandman"--his favourite song--and I'm starting to get a little concerned. I turn to my other friend, "where's Byung go-"

My words were cut short by a half-naked, bruised and rather dazed Korean boy literally falling out of the sky and landing at my feet. He'd lost his t-shirt, both his shoes and one sock, but somehow managed to navigate a moshing sea of a hundred thousand metallers to find his way back to us. He simply picked himself up, gave us the devil horns again like some sort of solemn rock salute and pushed his way back through the crowd towards the front. We didn't see him again till the next morning.
( pixel_fucker is going to need a bigger brush, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 18:26, 1 reply)

The Gathering of the Thousands
Milton Keynes.

Animal rights type gets on the stage between bands and informs the audience that there is a fast food van outside selling meat in the form of burgers, hot dogs and bacon sandwiches. A lecture was directed at the appreciative crowd on how we should stand up to this capitalist oppression. The angry crowd went outside to fight the good fight and send the murderer on his way.

Meanwhile I had slipped out and bought myself a bacon butty, a hotdog and a cup of tea, bloody starving was I.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 21:39, 2 replies)

accidental scores and other nonsense
where do i begin? we did lots and lots of festivals and parties in the late 80's to mid 90's... when it was still good... anyhoo... 1991, 50th anniversary of the discovery of LSD me and pal went to london town for the hyde park gathering to celebrate said discovery with a bag of ready rolled and no idea about what we were doing.. we wandered about the city wide eyed.. eventually at 3am the SPG grabbed us at marble arch and pointed guns at us!! it was surreal, it was over before we had a chance to even think about what had happened and all they wanted was to know if we were football fans?? thank feck they never bothered to search our bag which was full o stuff to warp the head....
1993 hitched to london on space cake and landed a lift from some half pissed plasterers from essex.. despite extreme fear in the back of their van it was a good lift all the way into london!! that was for the anti criminal justice bill do at hampstead heath... it was fun.. we were twatted on a number of substances but mostly hash fudge, special brew and acid, which incidentally was strawberrys.. the real ones at that, after i scored it i took it back to my gfriend and looked at it.. two of em but bugger, they were blank on both sides!! till i opened em up and we had not 2 but 4 result i think i danced to an alex patterson set, and people were asking me to sell them drugs!! that afternoon there was some altercation in a local pub and the police arrived en masse, i watched a proper riot!! for real with paving slabs thrown and people getting twatted etc.on acid..tripping my tits off and what was really weird was it never got a mention in the local or national news! censorship or what..

glasto90/91/92/93/94/95 acid acid acid... buying off the travellers who're all wasted on the stuff, animal as was his moniker was dipping football pools sheets with his bare fingers in liquid lsd!!
then there was geremy punting acid but so fucked that he couldn't even speak, sat on one of those foldy camping chairs with no bottom in so his knees were up by his chin with his arse on the floor stuck in the chair what a picture...

and there's us walking round shouting 'cash for hash' in an effort to score a weed

and that time i was giving one to my then sexy g'friend with the tent open with people watching, i was too smashed to care and i think she enjoyed exhibitionism.... fucking on mdma!! very intense.. and waking up in the morning washing down a trip with warm spesh'for breakfast

i really love the freaks though at festivals those stalwarts who have spent good time planning what they would dress up as, i have seen the jackson 5, one dude with a wig on and either side of him supported on timber is cut outs of the rest of the band.. genious, and Sandy Beaches, she was lovely i think she was meant to be a holiday rep or something.. you had to be there.... and the years we made good money selling wrist bands in pilton to ticketless and scared looking kids...

but mostly i remember being smashed a lot but in a nice happy hippy kinda way, while nasty stuff just seemed to miss us completely, i did make a point of smiling at everyone i saw who made eye contact with me, so if some saucer eyed new age mullet sporting tattooed pikey looking yorkshireman ever put the weirds up you it was an accident, i was trying to be pleasent..

we survived from trading jewellry and stuff we had made over winter swapping it for food and whatever whenever we could, it's great putting yourself in the hands of chance and relying soley on your wits(when they were about us)

i had some fantastically magical moments in a number of places, i also had some strangely alienating moments where communication with others was all but impossible cos the subtle nuances coursing accross their faces did not match up with the things they were saying,, paranoia or not perception is reality and a warped reality is still reality...

from what i've seen and heard most festivals these days are faceless sanitised corporate events with one singular objective, to seperate the young uns from thier dosh... it's a pity but a logical conclusion....

length... yup too long but loads of memories are flooding back and i am smiling so sod it
(TROLLING AWAY living under a post ironic bridge, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 20:29, Reply)

glasto 96 revisited
also i didn't really enjoy sharing a tent with my pal... it was two in tents!!!!

aiifhangyooo!!

if its bindun SORRY, if not WAHEEY!!
(TROLLING AWAY living under a post ironic bridge, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 17:21, Reply)

Secret Garden Party 2008
Last year was my third year running at this magnificent little festy near Huntingdon. I love this festival so much its the only one I'm really bothered about not missing, its big enough to have plenty to do and small enough for you to get from one stage/tent/activity to another in a few minutes at most, (I've been to Glasto and some of the other huge festivals and spent more time walking through crowds than enjoying the entertainment).

I really can't praise it enough, its non-corporate and the organisers really go out of their way to provide a fun-filled time. I also like the fact that during the day it all seems quite sublime, not a chav in site and aside from some of the mad activites everyone is encouraged to take part in, at face-value it looks pretty straight laced for a festival. When it gets dark however, it becomes the maddest place on earth, just about everyone is on one (or two or three or more - if you know what I mean).

I digress...

I could tell a number of storys of utter mentalness from my times there but last year I caused complete mayhem and it was a bloody miracle nobody was seriously hurt. I'm not proud of what I did but in hindsight it was pretty damn funny.

One of the coolest things about SGP is the landscaping and the big lake smack bang in the middle of it. To one side of the lake there's a pagoda which has a DJ booth on it and a big wooden pier-like platform extending out over the water which acts as the pagoda dance-floor. Now this is all very nice but its a bit of a nightmare to get on and off this platform cos there's just one narrow point of access/exit to the side of the pagoda, unless you fancy a swim that is.

Anyway, its Saturday night and I'd been looking forward to seeing my favourite DJ all weekend. Adam Freeland was due to do a two hour set from the pagoda starting at midnight and despite two days of drinking, smoking, swallowing and snorting (and not sleeping) I hadn't forgotten. I got there a good half an hour early and found just the right spot to spend the next couple of hours dancing like a nutter to Mr Freelands eclectic mix of breaks and electro.

This is where it all went wrong.

As I stood listening to the mediocre dj before Adam it occured to me that the platform was getting a bit packed and that this just wouldn't do, I needed room to strut my funky stuff damn it!!
Now don't ask me why I did this but at the time my befuddled brain thought it would be hilarious to stride over to a group of 4 or 5 young ladies and pronounce with a remarkably straight-face "Oh My God! Everyone needs to get off the dance-floor, its fucking sinking!"
I then wandered away to the back of the platform to skin up and snigger to myself while looking out over the lake.

Next thing I know is there is mad panic breaking out! There are security guys on boats around the lake with loud-hailers telling everyone to get off the dance floor as quickly as possible, girls are screaming, some guy is shouting that he can't swim and there are about 200 people trying to squeeze through the 6 foot wide exit to dry land.

"Oh shit!" I think, then rapidly sober up quite considerably. I immediately remove the quite distinctive hat I'm wearing and put on the jacket I had wrapped around my waist in the hope that everyone was so wasted I wouldn't be pointed out as the protagonist. I got off there sharpish and legged it to my tent to get changed as paranoia about getting lynched was all I could think about.

If you were there and I ruined your night then I'm truly sorry but hey - I missed my favourite DJ! And I was only fucking joking!
I spent the next day shutting my companions up as they took great delight in taking the piss - I was still paranoid about someone over-hearing them and the lynch mob (or security) getting me!

PS. I'm sorry Mr Freeland - I do hope you got paid anyway!
( Twizla ...a shrew living on the edge of a bog, extinct on, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 18:08, 4 replies)

Want that genuine festival feel but can't afford a ticket ?
Simple! Tape a cd cover featuring a photo of your favorite artist at the end of your garden and hook up an ipod with the speakers set on super-distort. Wait until it starts raining, go outside, turn on the ipod and peer and squint at the photo whilst getting thoroughly piss wet through to your bones. For added realism don't wash or have a poo for three days first, smother yourself in human excriment and piss, and charge yourself a tenner for a plate of under cooked super noodles.
(Big Grant, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 17:22, Reply)

.
Leeds Festival 2007, I learnt never to write the words 'International Trust' on your tits in permanent marker, and if you insist, remember to put suncream over it.

We could still read it the year after.
(and now for someone completely different, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:15, Reply)

Yuk?
Why would you do a runny shit in the corner of the floor of the disabled portaloo?

There's a loo in there, not 2 feet away. The clue is in the name it's called a "portaLOO", not a "shittable floor shelter".

If this is why women go to the toilet in pairs then I am sorely disappointed.
(teebie jeebie, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 10:27, 2 replies)

I was at Reading festival
...watching rage against the machine and trying to get into it - not really my thing. I'd managed to get right to the front, so there was no chance to escape the suffering, and I was being squashed against the railings by fucking idiots. Okay then, time to neck those pills I bought from the rastas ("dis stuff wi melt yo eyes", he said).

The pills were not as advertised. In fact, I'm fairly sure they were just laxatives. Laxatives and squashing against railings causes expedient and explosive evacuation. Also, the bustling crowd had the effect of smearing the liquid shit down my ass and legs and a bit up my back.

Cocksnot.
(mmmkay, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 3:15, 1 reply)

The tale of Kurt the cyborg and the last time L ever took acid
Reading festival 1992 and a group of us were by the main stage waiting for Nirvana to come on. There'd been rumours that they wouldn't play and L was beyond anxious, considering himself their number one fan. Imagine if you will a fat, spotty, greasy haired wannabe metal head who secretly loves Queen and makes no bones about his fanboy hero worship of Kurt Cobain. Practically drooling when they finally came out on stage. That was L.

The only problem was Kurt came on in a wheelchair. Oh and L had dropped enough acid to fell a Tyrannosaurus Rex. So to him, Kurt was in fact fused to the wheelchair and had now become a cyborg. The fact that he bounced out of the chair and played an amazing set was lost on him. Kurt Cobain was a cyborg.

This train of thought which he expounded on the rest of us continued for the next few hours until he noticed an ant crawling up his leg talking to him. He conversed with the ant and all of its friends for a few minutes, so we left him to it by the campfire and went to meet the guys we'd hooked up with earlier in the day.

Twelve hours later we come back and he's still in the same position, still talking to the ant which has now long gone and sets about introducing all of us. He swears he has no memory of this, but is sure that someone was speaking back to him the whole time.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 18:43, 3 replies)

Pulp but no fiction
V97 or V98. One of the two but cant remember which.

This was back when summers were hot every year. Wandering around V festival at Chelmsford with a mate, we spotted a bloke dressed in a full monkey costume giving out leaflets, but with some kind of security woman with him for some level of protection.

Now this was a hot day, people were melting and it looked like a festival for Lobsters. So I told this bloke fairly vocally that he was a wanker and a twat and obviously desperate for money. He looked at me and wandered off.

Later that night the headline act Pulp came on stage, only for Jarvis Cocker to reveal that he had decided to go around the festival grounds but could only do it in a disguise. That disguise was a monkey costume.

I had insulted the headline act.
(lordofallhesurveys How appropriate you fight like a cow, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 17:35, Reply)

I'm quite old now
and the only way my friend got me to agree to go to any kind of festival was by offering to go in this: .

Fuck all that being young shit. we've got cash, and we can afford it. Plus, we're going to charge out the showers and toilets at a fiver a pop.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:34, 6 replies)

Ancient History.
Ah memories. My first festival. Knebworth. 1979. LED ZEPPELIN! There were many mishaps (We hitched from Durham to the Festival), sunburn, dehydration, dire-rear, drunkenness, the discovery that sleeping in plastic bags makes you wet and cold, but one has stood the test of time.

We spent the afternoon drinking our way through two shopping trollies worth of various booze, watched various bands and sunbathing. I’m certain some substances were used also but it was long ago, far away and feels like a different country in my memory. And we weren’t the only ones. About 4 yards away a bunch of drunken Geordies were trying their best to drink the festival dry. And almost succeeded. To the extent that when the mighty Zep appeared they were all smashed out of their skulls and mostly asleep. Yes, the drunken cunts slept through one of the best Led Zeppelin gigs there has ever been.

*Calendar leaves fall away to the winter of 2000*

A new member of staff joins our happy band. Steve, two months older than me and from Gateshead. As often happens we start to reminisce about our many shared life experiences. We got to discussing festivals attended and told stories of exploits and incidents. After I’d told him the above story he was laughing heartily.
“Yeah,” I said. “What a bunch of daft twats.”
“Not really,” Says he. “That was me and me mates. We’d only gone to see Todd Rundgren.” At that point I told him he really was a daft twat and we’ve been mates ever since.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:26, Reply)

Wacken 2007
It was the third year I'd been there. Each year the bands who were playing were better and better.

The third year I didn't like any of the bands. So I dedicated myself to drinking myself into oblivion. Nothing quite beats sitting in a deckchair in the blazing sun with a bottle of Pina Colada that cost less than a quid!

Well the day turned into night and I was still drinking. I vaguely remember kissing a girl who was camping near our group at some point. After that things are very blurry so I will go on what I was told to fill in the next parts.

I started drinking bottles of lager, which I hate with a passion normally reserved for Bobby Davro! Then I started smashing the bottles and telling everyone in the near vicinity that smashed bottles are the best bottles because they can't steal your soul then!

Then the young lady from earlier sat by me. At which point we both ate each others faces until I said in I imagine my best Roger Moore voice "I'm off to bed, you coming or what?"

I'll skip forward to where I remember things. I awoke in my tent, there was a girl next to me. Wearing my shirt! I was completely naked. With blood under my fingernails. AND ALL OVER MY CROTCH!

What the fuck had happened? I woke her up, asking her why the hell I looked like I'd been shagging a disembowled chicken. Was she a virgin?

"Oh no, I came on yesterday!"

At this point I asked the most important question I have ever asked and fortunately got an answer in the negative.

"Is there any blood on my face?"

Then I made her leave my tent and wept for a good hour!
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:47, 1 reply)

Woo!
I was lucky enough (ahem) to get free tickets to see Lily Allen headline at a festival called SW1 in Clapham Common a few years ago.

I was with my ex-girlfiend and another mutual girl-friend at the time and as we had smuggled some druqs in to the venue we were all feeling a little excited and most of our inhibitions had been discarded at the entrance so set off wandering around the site half naked and smiling in the summer sun. Great days.

Having bored of Lilly Allen after a minute or so we headed off to listen to Howard Marks talk about drugs and smuggling etc* and while stood at the entrance to the tent (it was crowded inside) I felt someone pinch my bum (!).

Now I assumed that this was my missus so I did a quick 360 spin so I could stand behind her in that cuddly-from-behind-over-the-shoulder-cuddle that allows sweet nothings to be whispered in to my beloved's ear while also allowing me to massage her mammary’s for a while to enjoy the drug induced yet delightful stupor.

It was after a minute or so of this blatant cuppage that again someone pinched my bum (!). It couldnt possibly have been my bird or the girl we were with as she was stood a few feet in front of us so I turned around to confront the perpetrator of this wicked act hoping to either admonish them or leer at them and give a naughty wink depending on their level of attractiveness.

So I spin around to be confronted by a 13 or 14 year old girl and her teenybopper-boyfriend of a similar age.... Humph, I thought. She is way to young to be finding a 25 year old man like me attractive let alone have the confidence to pinch my arse so I let it drop and even though the young lass was smiling coyly at me I assumed that it must have been a passing joker playing tricks or perhaps someone who thought they knew me but scarpered when they realised that I was a total stranger. Nevermind - Life goes on.

It was only a few moments later when I felt a firm open-handed smack to my arse (!) that I spun around incredulously to confront the perpetrators and bellowed "Do you want to just fuck off or what?!" to the 13 year old couple while making a ham-fisted grab at the young ladies boob area in a self-righteous and half-arsed attempt at a purple-nurple which (I felt at the time) would have the desired effect of reinforcing my belief that young people in glass houses should not grab other peoples arses.

Duly reprimanded, the two youngsters stared open-mouthed at me and pointed off to the side of the tent where my good friend Jeremy was standing; laughing and pointing at me.

“He told us not to say anything”

There was nothing left for me to do accept release my vice group on her mini boob, back away slowly and steer my girlfriend away towards the bar to spend the rest of the day eyeing up police men and paranoid about being arrested for molesting a minor in public.
(aroe_m0rre, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:37, Reply)

Free festies are the best festies
I've never paid for a ticket to a festival yet have been to many. This is mainly due to my older brothers who made an art of getting into festivals and gigs for free for years by jumping the fence, getting on guest lists, blagging etc. So I followed the family tradition and soon was doing every festival and gig I could get away with. It always makes for a more exciting festival when you make the huge journey there and don't even know if you'll get through the gates.

One such occasion I went to T in the Park with a mate (who already had a ticket), convinced that I'd be able to get over the fence or something. I'd never been to that particular festival so didn't know the set-up but was sure I'd manage it.

On the Saturday morning my friend and I wandered the entire circumference of the festival trying at various point to scale the fence but to no avail. The first bands were starting up so I told my ticketed friend to get herself in and I'd meet her in there somehow. Long story a bit shorter, I met a band who gave me a (Glastonbury!) wristband that I got in with, met my friend and had a great day.

Leaving for the campsite that evening we were stopped by some wasted guy who needed help finding his car. We duly laughed at him pointing out that there were tens of thousands of cars spread among several car parks and the chances of finding his, in the dark, while drunk, were slim to none. He said he was the guitarist from Texas and if we helped him he'd give us access all areas guest passes. Well, I didn't know if he was bullshitting as I had no idea what the guitarist from Texas looked like (do you?) but the chance of getting a free pass to get in the next day was too good to miss so we set off on our hunt.

I still have no idea how but we found his car, he opened the boot and produced 2 of the most dodgy looking passes you've ever seen - Obviously made on his home computer, printed and laminated with a hole punched in the top, through which was threaded a black shoelace:
TEA (yes, TEA not T)
IN THE
PARK
ACCESS ALL AREAS
GUEST PASS

In Times New Roman font on plain white paper, approx. A5 size.

Naturally I was disappointed as this crap wouldn't get past the wily scrutiny of the gate staff but he insisted that he'd gotten through earlier on the same pass. He said it helps if you have a back-up story (like being the guitarist from Texas) to convince the gate staff so off we went, unconvinced.

Next morning we toddled off to the gate nervously sporting our dodgy passes, we walked up to the gate and waved our passes. The gate staff didn't blink and let us through but then there was a shout from security behind them "Oi! you can't go in with that!".

He came running over, took our opened cans of beer off us and chucked them in the bin.
(antigen is running away from something, Thu 11 Jun 2009, 1:11, 3 replies)

How to get drugs into festivals
I went to Global Gathering in 07. My mate and I divided our copious stash, he took his in on Friday without any issues.

I decided to take my half in on Saturday morning - early - assuming there would be no rozzers on duty. Wrong.

I suppose having eyes like saucers and wearing a T shirt with "Stoned" written on it (in tiny pebbles - my favourite T !) was a give-away.

The rozzer set the drug dog on me 3 times. It failed. I got in.

Method:

- take substances, wrap in cling film;
- put chilli sauce on cling film. Re-wrap.
- get a Pot Noodle, open very carefully, empty out contents;
- put stash in bottom of empty container. Put contents back in;
- using a hot knife (!) carefully melt the top of the Pot Noodle and re-seal foil over it.

This worked. The dog put its nose to the Pot Noodle and let me go. My mate, who had a bit of green so small as not to make a single joint out of, got caught by the same dog and got cautioned :-(

Have fun !
( I_Was_Mordred, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 18:02, 8 replies)

How to obtain free beer at a festival
As a youth I attendened many a festival including Glasto and saw many awesome sets including Radiohead. I realise in retrospect this behaviour was a bit cuntish but honestly, £4 for a pint of warm lager...

More enjoyable than the music was the free beer available if you knew what to do.

To do this, go to a crowded festival bar and order as many pints as you need. Make sure you have passed all the beer back to mates behind you as they have been poured. Once this is done and the barperson asks you for the money, suddenly remember another drink you need that involves them turning their back on you. As soon as they aren't looking, beat a hasty retreat.

Drink your warm lager and repeat at as many times as necessary.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 0:17, 6 replies)

For a minute there I lost myself
Glastonbury 97, not yet 18, amazed by my first glastonbury and indulging in all the usual first festival mistakes. No wellies, too small tent, over ambitous dope consumption and a total lack of cynicism.

I convince the others to miss Radiohead on the pyramid stage and we go and see Primal Scream. As we waded through the mud to the half submerged dance tent I knew my life would never be the same. In my plastic bag entombed feet, Dad's waterproofs and Screamadelica T-shirt I lost myself in the groove. A beautiful dreadlocked tattooed girl moved next to me and began to join me in the loss of my small town comprehensive catholic inhibitions. Lower and lower she moved as shuddering bass, chemicals, smoke and sweat combined.

I felt my waterproofs clinging against me, hesitantly i looked down and realised she was actually pissing against my leg. Primal scream stopped playing as some twat had climbed the lighting rig and wouldnt come down. I realised i was cold and wet and we tried to go and see Radiohead. we could hear possibly their greatest ever set but could get knowhere near the stage.

I gave up drugs a few years ago as i realised those few naive moments would never be bettered (though i tried very hard). But then i still go to festivals every year and I love Radiohead. And I sort of got a golden shower.
(larrymullensnr, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 21:59, 2 replies)

Melinda Messenger's norks
A few years ago, a mate of mine worked for a music press agency. As such he was always sorting us out with tickets. I forget the exact festival (Reading I think...) but he got us backstage passes one year. It's hardly rock and roll but the bogs are fragrant and, more importantly, the queue for the bar is non-existent.

One one trip to the bar there was a short blond lady being harassed by some drunk bloke. I didn't pay too much attention but as I got to the bar the girl (who seemed to be on the verge of tears) turned round, grabbed my arm and said "It's ok, I'm with him, bye". The bloke stumbled off and I looked round at my new found friend only to find it was the then-newly-famous Melinda Messenger! In a short skirt. And very tight top. She gave me a kiss (on the cheek!) to say thank you and signed my T-Shirt.

In case you're wondering, they were (and I'm sure still are) magnificent...
(FiatPanda, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 16:39, 11 replies)

The River of Actual Human Urine
Myself and two mates lost our Glastonbury cherry back when Tom Jones played in the early nineties. That year it was a scorcher, the heat turning tents into saunas and causing impressive dust-devils to whirl around the site like tornadoes. To reach the action from the campsite, we had to cross over a dry ditch via a small bridge populated by dodgy dealers. Needless to say, this could take a little time so most people opted to jump the ditch. After three days, this dry furrow filled up almost to the brim, around 3 feet deep. There had been no rain and the liquid had an unusual colour and pungent odour; it could only be one thing.
Even on Sunday we kept on leaping over it to get back to our tent, the consequences of falling in blocked from our minds by twelve hours' intake of cold lager. Late on Sunday night, as we made our way gingerly by torchlight, I'll never forget the sounds of the couple next to me traversing the deadly torrent of effluent.
"You WILL catch me, won't you Martin?"
"Course darlin', just jump."
"You SURE, Martin?"
"Come on love, I haven't got all night."
"ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! Jesus."

Splosh.

"Oh God."
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 10:55, Reply)

All I ever hear about festivals
Is how shit the toilets are. And it’s fair, festival toilets get progressively worse with each day that passes, and don’t start at a high standard. But I have the solution for you, fair festival-goer.

I experienced this at Glastonbury 04, and it made the toilet problem basically non-existent. This would even work for those of you of the female persuasion. I went from Wednesday morning until Monday afternoon, no issues.

1: Pre-festival. In your nice house, getting ready. This is essential – have a big messy shit, as close as you can to departure. The less build-up you’ve got going on, the more chance there is that you’ll make it. I’m not going to say this is essential but I think it helped as well – get yourself some weed. Start smoking it as soon as possible.

2: Festival. Queue in the baking heat, get your wristband, and walk the 26 miles to camp. Another essential here – camp within 50 yards of a grill tent – one of those places, in a marquee, selling sausage and egg baps and so on.

3: When you need a wazz, don’t go near them bogs. Urinals are much better, and with a clever campsite you’ll be able to use them for all wazzes. Females can opt for the girlie urinals complete with disposable she-wees.

4: When the munchies set in, get off to that burger tent. Order something meaty, bready and saucy. Honestly it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s fry-up territory.

5: Repeat step 4 for all meals and all munchies attacks.

You will stay so thoroughly bunged up for 5 whole days it’s actually quite scary. I didn’t feel a thing down there for the whole time, I didn’t feel horrible, but I didn’t use those toilets once. I spent a silly amount of money in that tent, but I think it made for a decent festival.

The only result I experienced was the monumental shit I had when I got home. It had the consistency of a blackhead – hard plug, through to creamy goodness.

I take no responsibility should you attempt this and experience explosive diarrhoea on Friday evening, in your tent. I will suggest a burger to bung you up though.

Also – don’t buy a didgeridoo. If you’re walking back to Glastonbury for a lift. It’s a really long way and didge’s are really heavy, I don’t know how Rolf manages.
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 8:58, 6 replies)

Bitter not sweet symphony
Way back at a Swedish festival me and my mates were playing this verve game in which one person walks ahead bumping into people while the others walk behind whisteling "Bitter Sweet Symphony".
Stupid, yes, but especially funny if the friend doing the "walk" is so small that he bounces off everyone he tries to bump.

This led to two head butting accidents, one with a cute girl that took it like a man and one with a grown man that started crying like a girl.

I don't think he found our appoligies sincere since we were cracking up seeing this bloke being comforted by his mate like a small child.
(WelcomeToCopehagen, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 8:43, Reply)

never
take half of the drugs you've scored for a festival before you actually leave. if you do, you may well end up missing the festival altogether and waking up in a bandstand 35 miles from home with a vietnamese bloke, a huge headache and no cash.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 19:09, 8 replies)

Scott
Last time I got lost and shouted out "Scott! Scott". I was sharing a tent with Scott.

Unfortunately everyone in all the tents all over the place joined in "Scott! Scott! Scott!".

It was confusing and awful, marginally worse than hearing posh kids shout "bollocks". I hate festivals.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 15:51, 2 replies)

'Excuse me, but is that a crown of thorns above that fist?'
Last year, me and my mate Graham Hughes tried to think up of what would be funniest/most offensive flag for Glastonbury and see if we can get it on TV.

Now, to be offensive and funny in as few words as possible. It was easy being one or the other, but both? Surprisingly tricky. It took us several beers but we came up with a solution. Three simple words.

Fist.
Me.
Jesus.

And so it happened. dressed in dinner jackets and top hats we wandered glastonbury making the BBC's life a nightmare...

Anyway, we've been to pretty much every glasto since 1997 together, but sadly not this year. he's visiting every country in the world for charity but since last week he's been falsely imprisoned off the coast of senegal. www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2009/jun/07/briton-arrest-santiago-cape-verde and is due to go to court today

It’s a shameless plug, but do check out his website. www.grahamdavidhughes.com/ Hopefully there will be news shortly & he can continue on his his odyssey.

Thinking of you buddy.
(littlestanjunior, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:12, 12 replies)

Quiet Riot on the Island
In the army, anything can happen...

Weekend arrives, one of the other soldiers knows of an outdoor all day rock concert 50 miles away and as I have the only car...

Cue new guy (Joe) to the unit asking if he can join us. Five crammed into my car and Mike on his motorcycle we get there under cloudy skys. Mike immediately flips his motorcycle climbing the hill (mountain) to the campsites. We spend the night on a steep hillside during a torrential downpour in a tent with a 6 inch river running through it. Next day the show starts and we begin accelerated intoxication.

Midway through the day the new guy causes some trouble. Mike walks up behind the new guy to yell at him and he turns around and delivers the most perfect punch right on the jaw of Mike who then fell backwards and cracks his head (I can still hear it) against the corner of a two foot stone wall. Blood everywhere and our first thought is, yep dead. However Mike is instantly on his feet and delivers a beating like you never saw to the new guy, who we then drag behind some trees.

Fifteen awesome bands later Quiet Riot (the headliner) is set to begin playing, however the police show up and tells them the concert permit has expired and the show is over. Cue the cops and the bands management engaged in some animated discussion while we prepare for disappointment.

Five minutes later as police drive away, lead singer announces that though they were scheduled to play a 20 minute set, they were ordered to stop or pay a $10,000 fine, he then says in his rock star voice, "We didn't come all the way out here for nothing, Fuck the $10,000, Fuck the Police".

Then on this little island in a lake in Tennessee, they played three hours of the most headbanging rock I have ever heard, called previous bands in to join them, invited and got girls to dance topless on the stage, shot dozens of towers of flame 30 feet high, smashed guitars and threw them into the water. Awesome Event!



Quiet Riot one month after the release of their first album playing 50 feet from shore on a little island on a fresh water lake in Tennesee in Spring.
(OMG-Hilarious, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 21:28, 3 replies)

Download again.
Anybody who witnessed the bottle fight in 2006 will know that those things can be quite amusing, if you're into that. But somebody always takes it too far don't they...

This one happened to be 'Superman'. Aptly named for his Superman T-shirt, who took it upon himself to be 'the hilarious character' by throwing bottles full of water from the top of a hill some 30ft foot below onto unsuspecting passers by. This would have been funny, if the other people were in on the fun, but as it turns out, many were unimpressed when a 2 litre bottle full of water unexpectedly landed on their heads. Something I imagine to be an unwelcome shock, and quite painful.

As the shenannigans progressed, people became more and more upset with the proceedings, when eventually in what can only be described as a monumental misjudgment of the situation, Superman upped the ante by throwing a 5 litre bottle, full to the brim with water below.

Right.

Onto.

Someone's.

Head.

I've never seen a crowd of metal fans go silent before, but it is almost as deafening as being at the front for Metallica (who played a fucking amazing set later on, if you're interested....).

Enough was, evidently, enough. Two fellows made their way up the hill, and... Well it looked like they were going to shake his hand...!

They couldn't be congratulating him could they?

They are, they're shaking his ha... Oh, no. Nope, It was all a clever ruse, and Superman fell for it.

Watching two people beat superman in a cloud of dust, whilst a crowd cheered was a surreal experience, although I think the irony may have been lost on the misguided fool at that point....
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 12:41, 3 replies)

Glasto again
Sitting in a dance tent area arena, nothing going on other that quite a few chilled out dreadlocked hippes.

A fellah comes on stage with a crazy wooden contraption that turned out to be the Satan of all synthesizers. Within seconds, chilled out hippies turned into whirling dervishes dancing to the most mental gabba beats this world and the next has ever seen.

Problem - lots of these dreadlocked types put metal things in their beeswax bouffants. Imagine the scene, like something out of an adeventure movie - drugged up to fuck trying to navigate our way between these flying hairy metallic death things to get out of the place. My friend actually got cut on the face where he took at 180bpm dreadlock with a brooch round it on the cheek.

One of the loveliest experiences at Glasto that instantly turned into one of the most dangerous. Fucking funny to watch from the outside though!
(Stewaddy-waddy, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 0:06, Reply)

Call from work
"Can you turn your stereo down?"

"NO!!!"

"Why not? Have you been to see the doctors yet? We're just worried about you and want to know if you'll be ok for work tomorrow. Will you turn that music down so I can hear myself think!?!"

"NO!!! ERM... SORRY!!! DON'T THINK I'LL BE WELL ENOUGH TOMORROW EITHER!!! ERM... SORRY!!! BYE!!!"

-click-

That was a fucked up conversation. My ex boss must've thought I had one hell of a muthering bastard of a stereo on steroids in my flat, though - I didn't have the heart or the balls to explain I'd actually skived off work as I'd received a last minute offer to go to Download, and I was, in point of fact, stood infront of the main stage listening to Slayer break the fucking sound barrier.

I didn't fancy turning round to Dave Lombardo et al and asking them to keep the noise down for a few minutes...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 17:02, 2 replies)

LSD - seems like a good idea at the time...
Not me (already mad enough without the liberal ingestion of hallucinagens) but a good friend came back from Glasto, an event that he was very much looking forward to, having spent vast amounts of money on both tickets and camping paraphinalia.

"So" says I "How was Glastonbury?"

"well, um. Good. Pretty good."

"So who did you see?"

"um, well..."

It transpired that he, along with his two camping buddies, had managed to get hold of some LSD just after arriving at Glasto and, being quite big fans of illegal substances, all sampled a large quantity, which they washed down with some lovely cider.

They then proceeded to spend the evening, instead of going into the festival itself, listening to the radio. When it wasn't tuned in. And also walking round and round a large tree, feeling for secret messages in the bark.

Money not so well spent.
( hanabanana, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:47, 1 reply)

Glade 2005
Went to get a Pie from the Pie stall. They had run out of Pies. So they gave me a free Pie T-shirt instead.
( BindiBaji, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 14:17, 9 replies)

Lets face it
Festivals are what middle class people do to pretend to be interesting. "Oh, look at me - I've just spent a hundred pounds on a festival ticket! Step away from the tapas, wine, avacado and goats cheese and come and give me praise! To show how much of an individual I am I'm going to spend the equivalent money that will keep a family on the breadline alive for a month to go and stand round with thousands and thousands of other individuals. We can talk about where we're going ski-ing next season and how the country would be much better if we just got rid of poor people."
(Fozzy Wozzy, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:43, 13 replies)

Beautiful Days 2007...
...and it fucked it down the whole weekend. Come Sunday night, the entire site was knee-deep in claggy, slidey mud. The view from the top of the main stage field looked like a zombie movie filmed in a cesspit, as a few thousand pissed, stoned and bedraggled festy-goers schlopped their way round the site.

It was aces though. I'm pretty sure everyone had a good time. Well, except for the girl I spotted late on Sunday evening.

The Levellers were closing the festival, in traditional style. Halfway through their set the umpty-three pints of Suicider I'd ingested throughout the day were clamouring for some space of their own, so off I slid to the bogs. In the light of strobes and fireworks, I noticed a small crowd gathered round one of the shitboxes. So, naturally, I wanted to get myself a better look. I mean, it could have been anything.

In the dim glow, I could make out the slumped figure of a girl, her friends gathered round attempting to rouse her. A horrified-looking paramedic looked on, hurriedly snapping on an industrial grade pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.

Poor poorly girl, I thought, as I skipped off to the other end of the queue to wait patiently for a slash. I wonder if they'll have to hose her off or something?

Bearing in mind the cumulative effect of rain, mud, beer and festival food, I'm pretty sure that kneeling in one of the turdis cubicles with head gently resting on the mounded contents of the pot wouldn't have been top of her 'preferred places to be' list.

Still. At least it wasn't me.
(surlygirl spanked your monkey on, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:33, 2 replies)

Not mine, but I was there man
Went to Reading a few years back with a friend, lets call him M. Drinking, smoking, eating shit food etc etc good times. We'd been trying to avoid using the on-site bogs as best we could, but come the turd day (snigger) M just couldn't hold it anymore for fear of internal injury.

Off he waddled towards the nearest cess pit and a few minutes later he returned doubled up with laughter, which I initially put down to post crap euphoria. Turns out he'd entered a bog, with curiously no queue, only to find exactly what you'd expect.

Feacies flung frivolously throughout, with a steaming pile of brown bum bananas reaching a good half foot up from the rim of the pit. Obviously people had been standing on the plastic sidey bits and hovering before cascading crap upon the pooey peak.

Unfortunately for someone their hovering skills were not up to the challenge and there was a perfectly formed bum print on top of the tower of turd. M just couldn't go, the risks were too high
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:21, Reply)

This one time I was at this Mr T. festival for Mr T. fans as well as supporters of the A-Team.
I ended up getting in to a tussle with Mr T. in the queue for candy floss.
I knocked three of his teeth out and he ran off crying.
Then I made out with eight page three girls.
( Jam Master Geordie Hero of B3ta., Thu 4 Jun 2009, 23:57, 1 reply)

Glastonbury, early 90s
We arrived without any herbal refreshments, so went off to purchase some from all the friendly people who used to frequent the bridges (Yeah I know...we were young).

My friend buys a lump of some indeterminable substance and we walk on. He is a few steps in front of me, and to test his new purchase burns a bit and shoves it up his nose for the good old smell test.

Unbenown to him, behind him is a copper on a horse. The horse decides to nuzzle his shoulder, and my friend turns around thinking its me, still trying to get a good sniff of his herbals, looks up, sees a horse staring at him, looks up a bit further, sees a copper staring at him. Looks at me, by this time I'm nearly dieing with laughter, especially when I see the look on my poor friends face.

Luckily the copper wasn't bothered about the lump of dope protuding from my friends left nostril (probably because it was an oxo cube or something similar).

I will never forgot it.
(kohoutec, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 19:05, Reply)

I don't really go to festivals
However, last year I went to Infest. Not so much a festival, but still.

We stayed in halls of residence at Bradford University, the gigs were indoors and we had running hot water, one person per shower, en suite.

On the way back, we went through Leeds train station. What did we find? Fucking cordoned off areas full of shit-caked people, obviously not going anywhere, no money to get back home and looking like something off an Oxfam appeal video.

Then our train home was disrupted because of them. They were just packed into any tight space available, meaning we couldn't get from our seats to the bar / toilet without having to squeeze, crawl and stagger over them.

Just... what's the point? I HAVE been to festivals, now I don't. I really didn't realise what an utter fucking inconvenience these people are to everybody else.

Sorry for length, but surely some people agree with me?
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 17:26, 3 replies)

Sorry: long, self-indulgent and pearoasted...
"Gosh" exclaimed Moey, "I couldn't possibly".

"But you must" they chimed harmoniously "you simply must, it just wouldn't be the same without you".

"But, you just don't understand..." Moey tried to protest before cutting himself off. If he couldn't believe his own argument how could he possibly hope they would. He offered it anyway, but he knew it was weak and they knew he was going with them.

And so it was amidst a heady mix of excitement and anticipation that the gang clambered aboard their trusty chariot and waved merrily to the Hertfordshire boundary as they sped past it on route to the South West.

The sun stretched and yawned and raised itself from the previous night's rest, and the first evidence of their destination presented itself to the weary, happy campers. They'd driven through the night, pausing only briefly to fill up their surprisingly swift, but unmistakeably tatty Fiesta, and to top up the caffeine levels of their surprisingly tatty, but unmistakeably swift driver. After what seemed like an eternity, the car finally bounced unhappily through the empty field and each occupant questioned yet again whether the sign at the entrance really had said 'parking: £5'. Surely their collective sleep deprivation hadn't lead to a shared hallucination, and there was the vague memory of presenting a crumpled 'lady' to the crumpled gent on the gate. The sight of the solitary Golf sat in the distant corner soon reassured them and they abandoned the car alongside it and trudged back up to the main road.

"My word" Peter puffed as the tall fence loomed into view.

"Gee whiz" William agreed, "I shouldn't think I'd have the strength to scale that, not in a million years".

"I'm sure we'll find some assistance" hoped James. "There must be some kindly souls here about that could help us".

There were. For £5 a rope was proffered by a kindly Liverpudlian gentleman. They thanked him profusely, but continued their pursuit of an alternate option. One that would cost them less; at least £5 less. As they continued their circumference of the site they encountered numerous groups of terribly helpful and friendly chaps. Largely from Liverpool, each gentleman gestured toward a rope going over, or a hole snaking beneath the perimeter fence, and each one was willing to exchange its use for a small donation. Their persistence paid off, however, as free passage beyond the fence eventually became achievable, and as the last of them blew out a puff of air upon their impact with the soft ground, they felt themselves relax and finally able to take in the rare and unusual beauty that is the Glastonbury Festival.

It was 8 in the morning. The site was at its calmest as almost all the previous night's revellers had finally taken themselves to bed leaving only a few dazed and confused stragglers; lost, frightened souls who wanted nothing less than to have their hangover exposed to the bright morning sun. For our four, however, the absence of sleep was immediately forgotten and they bounced merrily through the haphazard tents, eager to begin properly the adventure they'd spent hours jabbering excitedly about.

[There now follows a montage from the point of view of Moey: the day flashes past in the familiar time-lapse style and the images become progressively blurred as the sun seeks solace behind the pyramid stage. Snippets of music interspersed with garbled speech, spat from increasingly gnarled and distorted grimaces offer a disorientating soundtrack. Eventually the underside of a van is briefly, if a little confusingly recognisable, before blackness descends over the screen and the gentle sound of light rain becomes the only sensory stimulant to remain].

"Where the fuck am I? What's crawled into my head and started punching my brain? And, ugh, what's that big face doing there? It's shouting at me. Now there are hands on me; what the fuck is going on here?" The snarling ape dragged me from my refuge beneath the van and continued making sounds. I didn't understand a word of it. I didn't really know where I was, and I definitely couldn't summon any words, so I just walked off and left him swinging his knuckles about the ground while squawking and bleating at the top of his voice.

The sun had risen, but its effect was dampened by the drizzle that just hung in the air and refused to finish its descent. It was 8 in the morning again and now I was one of those freaks, caught out by the early morning. Nowhere to hide from the brutality of my excesses and forced to stumble through the throngs of zombies, gripped by fear and loathing, my body in turmoil and my head wrecked and broken. I found conditions conducive to rolling a spliff by propping myself up against a wall and cowering beneath a small, plastic baby bath, but the cold air mixed with my soggy clothes and I had to keep moving in order to avoid freezing. I accidentally wandered into the path of my partners in crime and couldn't find the energy to berate them for not waking me (I soon discovered that they had no idea of my whereabouts after I'd staggered away before collapsing under the van) and we immediately decided not to prolong our agony, but to head straight out of the site and toward the shitty old Fiesta we'd arrived in just 24 hours earlier.
( Moey, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:45, Reply)

Quo
Quo should headline every festival.
( the RAND corporation a.k.a. Kevin Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:08, 1 reply)

Glastonbury a few years ago
I've never been, but I remember laughing heartily as I drove up the M5 not so far away as some of the most impressive lightning I've ever seen split the sky, accompanied by lashings of rain.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:52, 2 replies)

Bitch
One time I went to a festival of sorts, but more a mass-meeting of like-minded individuals. A big bunch of us went down to Brighton and joined up with others from all over. It felt absolutely immense, being part of something bigger, after being part of a small group, and of course getting all the flak from my parents, pricks from town and so on.

We went to a nightclub and danced like maniacs, off our tits on speed. Then next day we went fucking mental and battered the crap out of some greasy bastards, until the police got involved and tried to bust us. There was a bird I'd had my eye on for ages, and we managed to get away into an alley, where - holy crap, my dreams had come true! - she let me give her a quick knee-trembler.

Problem was, after we went back onto the streets, I got busted by the fuzz. Then the bird went off with one of my mates. Bitch! Then when I tried to speak to her afterwards, she just told me to fuck off! I was so pissed off I crashed my scooter.
(McChinaman banned, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 15:45, 5 replies)

Free, gratis and for nothing!
I got to go to Glastobury 2000 (the dry year) for the price of a telephone call - YAY!

There I was, 21 years old sat at home watching The Priory hosted by Jamie Theakston and Zoe Ball, guest starring Kylie Minogue when the weekly competition appears on screen: identify the reason the person was famous. Easy, thinks I: it was the chappie who reads out the footballs scores of a weekend. I knew this because he'd appeared on a programme not less than a week before.

Verily I dialled the number and chirpily gave my answer to the friendly lady at the other end of the line, who sounded incredulous I knew, and so asked. I told her what I've just told you. She took my details and within the hour I was watching the rest of the show when teeny, tiny Kylie reads my name out (and pronounced it correctly to boot) as the excitable winner of a free pair of glorious Glasto tickets! YAY!

I spent that weekend enjoying the delights of The Happy Mondays (overrated), Reef, Coldplay, Slimboy Fat, Kelis (Best. Set. Ever. Kaleidescope is far too overlooked as a debut album), The Orb and Basement Jaxx. (And to this day my brother has never forgiven me for choosing Basement Jaxx over David Bowie on the Pyramid Stage on the Sunday night as my entertainment of choice.)

The only festival I've ever been to and I didn't have to pay! Plus, Kylie read my name out on national television!
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 12:44, 2 replies)

Tesco Value Rich Tea biscuits
Be prepared and stuff a packet of these in your rucksack before you leave your home. They are so utterly dry, so entirely devoid of any kind of moisture it's akin to eating a disc of compacted sand. I swear I once lost a whole mug of tea to a dunked one.

If it rains at Glastonbury like it did in 2005, half a pack should clean up the Pyramid stage area nicely.
( chart cat has an itch, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 2:57, Reply)

Impenetrable jenga towers of beer!
I'm not the festival type, really. Something within my parameters of personal comfort prohibits me from sharing a toilet cabin with a thousand other peons, and the chance of being caught servicing Mrs Badger within the confides of my tent is somewhat offputting to my stamina.

Most importantly, I'd be willing to pay good money for what I feel is a good value amount of entertainment - the golden rule being the only people fitting in to a festival were those who refused to pay. I know I am not welcome there as I am indeed a straight-laced spineless chump of biblical proportions, but back in the Summer of 2004 fate threw me an Eastern European screwball.

Back then, I was working what I could at a certain alcoholic beverage company known for toying with the music scene. Not enough hours to blag free tickets by all means, but enough to assign me the responsibility of offloading pallets of watery beer off the truck and into the tent. Well, that was the plan, but some muppet assigned me to work with our blessed lorry driver, Polish Dave.

Polish Dave was called Polish Dave because of his habit of being Polish, and had all the cultural understanding of a Gumby. Who was clocked by a member of the public with one foot out the window, steering with the other? That's Polish Dave and his wet nail polish. Who pierced a hole into the bottom of the pack of fags and proceeded to smoke them all simultaneously? Polish Dave was bored. Who spent the entire morning run impersonating Sir Terry of Wogan every time the broadcaster spoke, despite it being Radio 1? Polish Dave doesn't understand channel frequencies.

Now when the radio's newsbeat story mentions the large number of teenagers sneaking into the festival we were delivering to, who else would decide to sneak me in 'for the hell point of it' than Polish Dave, ignoring the fact I already had a legitimate (albeit temporary) access right.

His rationale was simple; mine out the beers from the bottom of the pallet and fit me in the space opened up, like a giant game of Jenga. With more than a few tins in my system on the company's behalf, I decide it isn't a bad idea.

An hour later we pull into the public parking to drop off the delivery, which may have been the stupidest idea ever conceived as thirsty queue jumper after thirsty queue jumper watched eagerly as Dave wheeled a 10ft tower of beer alongside them nonplussed to his situation.

I've never seen a zombie attack in person before, but this is the closest I got. Realising the potential reward, they started following us. Slowly at first, but their evolution from Night of the Living Dead zombie to the 28 Days Later incarnate (despite not technically being zombies) became apparent. I was being chased through a field by a crowd of teenagers within a large tower of pisswater steered by an eccentric Pole. I did the only thing I could do; I offloaded as much beer-ammo as I could furiously in the direction of the drinkers, but that only made them worse. Then it happened; the tower started collapsing. Reluctant to being crushed by a half tonne of alcohol (although in hindsight, I couldn't think of a better way to go), I abandoned ship and was nicked by security who told me to fuck off to my tent and never grace their vision again. The only problem was I didn't have a tent; I wasn't supposed to be there anyway.

The moral of this story is that if you saw a long haired bloke screaming at security guards that he didn't belong at Reading 2004 while 50 people shook his hand for being an internationally recognised provider of beer, I should apologise for causing a scene. The only ones who looked a bigger twat than me were those who paid to see The Darkness headline Friday.

No apologies for length; it's the only reason we're together.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Tue 9 Jun 2009, 16:03, Reply)

Another toilet one,
Which I'll keep short.

At reading a few years back, we were camped quite near an 'alternative' toilet. Also known as the bushes, cos that's what they were.

To get to them you had to go down a little bank to a small stream, where you could relieve yourself as nature intended, and many, many people did.

I'll never forget seeing one unfortunate soul, after squatting for a piss, getting up and attempting to climb the bank.

I should mention that the bank was pretty damn precarious after being pissed and shat on by a few thousand people, meaning that the poor lady fell, right down flat, onto her face. Right into where about 3 other people had just been going about their filthy business.

After the tears stopped long enough for her to ask for help out of there, one gent offered to help her out (not this gent by the way. I'm not touching a shit covered person, even if they are fit...), and as predictably as you'd imagine, he got dragged down into the mire of shite screaming like a loon.

It was roughly about this time i left the situation in all it's grim glory. With the girl crying, covered in brown, and a now very regretful man puking, whilst about 5 or 6 people looked on in what changed from laughter to mild horror, very rapidly...

Not that the portaloos are much better....
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 14:05, Reply)

Oh, and...
Watching Daphne & Celeste getting piss-bottled off stage at Reading was probably one of the best moments of my life.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 12:14, 4 replies)

Swimming
At Glasto, like many people, I pissed in the river. Then I saw the children swimming not far downstream. So I puked in the river too.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 12:09, Reply)

...
/windows/system32/oobe/images/title.wmv.

PARTAY!FXXCKING PARTAY!
Festival that.
(godisdove I like cheese, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 23:38, 5 replies)

Give It A Name, 2007
Mere months before the indoor smoking ban was brought about. Sob, sniff.

Clearly the shit emo lineup, abundance of witless 12-16 year olds and non-camping indoor venue (Earls Court) needed a bit of herbal excitement, so I decided to pre-roll on my mate's hotel room floor. When we got there, a massive, intimidating rasta-ish security guard insisted on searching all our bags and pockets, even confiscating my sodding bouncy ball for fuck's sake! Oh god, silly me, it could have someone's eye out.
But what he did next made it all better... he opened my glasses case, saw the fruits of my efforts, tipped a wink and put it back in my bag.

Thank you, sir.
(jothemofo, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 20:17, 2 replies)

a friend of mine
did a lot of acid at glastonbury and woke up to find he had pissed all over the inside of his tent and everything in it.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 14:16, 7 replies)

Wacken 2007
There's nothing quite like waking up with a hangover to find a drunken, naked German sitting outside your tent and having a wank.

On the way there we also got thrown out of a taxi in the pitch-black German countryside 5 miles from where we wanted to be after my boyfriend threw up Jack Daniels over the car and the driver couldn't be arsed waiting in traffic. Fun times!
(Blackhearted, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 13:42, 1 reply)

Golden shower
Back in 2005 I went to Leeds Festival with my new girlfriend, Valerie, and her rather eclectic group of friends, none of whom I really knew that well. As a result, I was either canoodling and moshing with my young lady, or stuck with a bunch of weirdos I discovered I had nothing at all in common with while she was off doing things with one or more of her girly mates. The lazy solution to this predicament seemed to me to be to get as pished as possible, the logic being that the alcohol would either do its job as a social lubricant, and make the oddballs seem a whole lot more interesting, or just be a fun selfish alternative.

As a result I ended up waking up on the second night with a bladder fit to burst and a head less than ideally equipped for nocturnal navigation. After tripping over several guy ropes and realising my mission was doomed to failure, I succumbed to nature and less-than-quietly drained the snake into a tuft of long grass than I reasoned nobody was likely to walk through. The next morning however, it transpired that I’d completely failed to take into account the local gradient, as gravity had done its job and channelled my golden stream right into one of our group’s tents, as the unsuspecting occupants discovered when they woke up with pillows reeking of my high-octane piss. I was way too cowardly to publicly admit it was me, but I did later ‘fess to Val.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:11, Reply)

The Metallica story
Ah this has to be my favourite and then favourite of many of my friends who’ve heard… I think it’s even had some air time on the national radio due to the unfortunate recipient working for a rather larger national radio station.

Anyway, it all started back in 2003, am in Cornwall for my mum’s wedding, which is one day before the Reading Festival – which is being headlined by Metallica. But me and my girlfriend of the time, who we shall call Sarah to protect her minor celebrity status, had no tickets to the fest, and were a good few hundred miles too far south west to be able to enjoy the rocking weekend ahead. We carry on and enjoy my mum’s wedding and do what we do best and get super trashed. Hummn…super trashed.

Next morning, house empty, we’re suffering from the night before, and I’m feeling a little bit sick, plan on a weekend of doing nothing until Sarah’s mate Alan calls up saying he’s managed to get us on the guess list for Reading, do we want in… we’re in Cornwall, with only really suits and shoes on us, no tent, not much cash, no way of getting there… and hadn’t seen my mum to tell her where we were going… but f**k it, lets go. Left my mum a note, got the next train up and off we went….

Awesome, got there just in time to hear the mediocre set from pop wannabes Blink 182, we found a cheap tent and pitched up in the security field, guest passed allowed for that. (also the best supply of free – confiscated – weed at a festival!)

So we’re enjoying the festival, and the highlights it bring – Good Charlotte turning the sky black with bottle being thrown at them, The Libertines finishing a decent set, me sitting next to Colin from a Hundred Reasons, and Colin’s mum.

So Sunday rocks up, and all is set for Metallica. Me and Sarah had drunk plenty for not enough to fall out… all was good. And then they started… awesome. They know how to rock. And my bladder knows when its full. Thought I could ride it out but when ‘For whom the bells tolls’ starts up, the excitement almost gives way. “I need to pee, don’t move back” I shout to Sarah, thinking I could get away with peeing in the pit… I mean, it’s Reading, it’s dark, who would care?

Well unfortunately Sarah didn’t hear me, and moved back, but didn’t know I was peeing until her jeans were soaked with a good few pints worth of warm Stanely pee….and then she smacked me in the face. Hard. Three times. Oh she wasn’t happy.

So we have a little break from each other… but unfortunately no matter how far we wandered ff away from each other, we just ended back stood next to each other. Ah bugger… I knew I wasn’t going to get a kiss and make up but… “nothing else matters” strikes up “I want to go on your shoulders…” but you’re covered in pee “Yes, your pee, now up I go” which was only fair… so for the rest of the gig, on her own whim, I had to stand with piss soaked jeans wrapped around my neck… ah but it was so worth it. Best gig I’ve ever been too.

Length, I’d say almost two pints.
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 11:10, 2 replies)

Danny filth
Ozzfest many years ago.

It was my birthday, the sun was shining, i was merrily drunk and in a generally boisterous mood.

I found a blue sticker on the floor, lo and behold it was a staff backstage ticket. RESULT!!!!!!

I proudly waved my way past the security and decided to have a mooch in the performers bar/tent.

Inside i spotted cradle of filth, that bloke from drowning pool who later died and strangely enough... Faye from steps! (WTF!)

Anyhow, i bought myself a pair of beers and decided to have a chat with Cradle of filth.
Now please bear in mind that i didn't look like a typical Goth, or rocker.... in fact i've always been a scrawny, lanky type, and it just so happened i was dressed as colourful as possible (bright shorts, hawaiian shirt and bleached blond hair that had erupted into some form of afro)*.

I cannot remember exactly what i was saying to them, but i seem to remember Danny filth looking decidedly perturbed at my invasion of his post-gig beverage. And because i had a pass, there was no way i was leaving.

It's one of those moments that i wish i had viewed from another perspective, as no doubt you would have seen a jolly looking, flamboyantly dressed northerner, towering over this short arse goth and i was the one freaking him out.
They eventually made their excuses and wandered off.

Result.

*The only point in time i ever had an afro. My hair is usually straight, i have no idea why it happened. I guess some things are meant to be.

(Oh and this was the same festival i noticed my mates recently pierced tongue had become infected and bloated and turned a yellow shade of foulness and it stank too. Yurg)

Length. Six foot four vs four foot nowt.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 16:08, 2 replies)

as a crusty i've been to a few
i'll try to keep it brief

glastonbury, many years ago, the toilets were set up over a huge pit which filled, rapidly, with waste. said toilets collapsed dropping ten or so folk in. yes. seriously. in small plastic cupboards as the waters (they wished it was water) rose. the toilet faeries were there and hosed them down and payed for new clothes. talked to the stall owner who furnished them. he did discounts all the way and then made a couple of the folk rum coffees. we alternatly gagged our way through the conversation at the stench from 50 feet away.

breaking into glastonbury over the wall at night. and realising we had dropped into the security compound (hullo Mez if yer reading this :D). Scuttled through the gates into the festival giggling.

trying NO2 and having to be carried/dragged to the tent by my incredibly patient GF. i do not reccomend it as a way to finish the night. i woke up with my feet out of the tent all puckered and blue and like lumps of painful stone.

witnessed jumping a 5 bar gate into the sacred space at glastonbury. not vaulting using a hand. strainght jumping. i dont remember doing it but witnesses made me try it again the next morning. i did not succeed. in a horribly mangled way.

Trying to stop a girl who was much too young molesting me. Ended up finding her brother to make her stop. that was an interesting conversation...

Hving run out of money/food but still having some green walking past a noodle bar to hear a member of staff say "we can't just throw that away". i aided them in not throwing a HUGE pile of noodles away by eating 3 servings and informing other hungry revellers. i swapped green for noodly goodness and all was well. 2 hours later woke up sunburnt and with a swollen noodlebaby belly.

i could go on and on but wont so last one? Solfest. just love it. See ya there! :D
(DreddPirateBob has watched every scifi film ever on, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 9:37, 3 replies)

Rebellion Punk Festival 2008
I've played at the punk festival since 2007, and I'm playing this year.

Last year had some great moments, such as being in the worlds smallest dressing room, with Edward Tudor Pole and some other woman who was getting changed, all whilst blatantly flouting the anti smoking inside laws. Sat in a room of punks and burlesque dancers all huffing glue. Insulting Itch from The King Blues. Bitching about Itch from The King Blues with their former bassist. Singing "Please don't piss in my microwave" with cabaret punk band Monkish (who feature Chris Goodman - Ex King Blues). Eating a diet of only hot dogs. Smuggling all my friends beer in the back entrance (hur hur) with my artists pass. Pissing everyone off with my set, by singing the same chorus at the end for 10 minutes, the lyrics of which are "Bareback anal hardcore porn, amateur tittyfuck scat", laughing at a friend who took speed because she was so drunk, drinking Special Brew and playing loads of pop songs on my guitar outside the festival on the first day, Captain Hotknives hugging me in the toilets, absolutely twatted on weed.

ROLL ON 2009!!!!

My set involves : Feathers, chicken livers, toy guns, Wurlitzer organs, super strength beer tasting, custard pie fights, a mixture of original punk and pop song covers, all played on a ukulele this year!!
(Multi-Coloured Pop Shop "twat with a ukulele", Sun 7 Jun 2009, 2:47, 1 reply)

Not even going to pretend I was there
But I love this clip. Richie Havens playing at Woodstock '69.

All the other bands had been held up in the massive traffic queues to get to the site, so Havens was kept on for hours. Legend has it that when he ran out of things to play, he started making them up. This song is an example.

Even if it's not true, it's a nice story and an awesome song.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 21:28, 1 reply)

Storming the Castle 2006
This is a bike festival held, oddly enough, in the grounds of a castle in the wilds of North East England. We'd got tickets specifically because the Levellers were headlining on the Saturday evening. However, on awaking on Saturday morning we were a bit dismayed to see that it was pissing from the heavens in a manner that reminded me of me after a particularly heavy night on the beer. Relentless; just when you thought that it might be easing a bit, a further torrent would be mercilessly unleashed.

Putting up a tent in that wouldn't be fun. Oh no. So a plan was formed; we'll take the tent in the car, and if it's still spunking rain from the heavens, one of us will stay sober and we'll drive home after the band have finished.

When we got to the site, the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. It could have been described as pleasant, if it weren't for the copious levels of mud. Still, this means we can both relax and have a drink. Yay.

After putting the tent up, we sauntered around the site, grabbing some food and having a look at the stalls, before going to the big marquee where the bands were playing. The evening passed, we enjoyed the bands, and the chatting to random strangers. It was on the way back to our tent that we noticed it - a portaloo, lying on its side, and half submerged in a muddy puddle. A familiar stench of chemicals laced with piss and shit assaulted our senses. A bouncer was looking slightly grim. We asked him what had happened.

Turned out that someone had been ejected from the venue for being a bit of a knob; in his drunken disgust at being treated so shoddily, he had taken a flying leap at the big blue box of fetidness, and knocked it over.

Unfortunately, there was a girl still inside. A girl who was somewhat upset at suddenly finding herself horizontal and becoming rapidly covered in the remnants of God-knows how many hundreds of festival goers half digested burgers, piss and chemicals.

A bit grim. I felt sorry for whoever would be sharing a tent with her that night, as there were no shower facilites on site.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sat 6 Jun 2009, 13:56, Reply)

Long Beach Blues Festival
2 years ago, the first time husbandthesecond kicked me out, one of my friends had spare tickets to the Long Beach Blues Festival. I love the blues, so agreed to go with him.

You gotta remember, this guy's in his 60's, long hair and looks like a tramp. He also has a long beard so his nickname is Osama. However, he's worth quite a few million bucks.
Spent a couple of hours walking around in the blazing hot sun, pouring water over ourselves, other people and drinking lashings of margaritas.

We move over to one tent, and a lady was singing the blues. She then went into one of those rambling "talking blues" moments and asked "is anyone here with someone else's wife".......and Don stood up, raised his hand and said "I am!".

The entire tent pissed themselves laughing.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 0:06, Reply)

Oh and i think i disturbed a wedding at Glastonbury
I'd had some 'magic brew' and spent most of the monday morning watching the glorious sun rise above the amazing colours and crowds of the stone circle (2005 if anybody is asking) and was quite literally in heaven. Nothing could ever beat the sounds, the smells, the crowds, the people, the weather.... It was beautiful.

I think somehow i ended up lost amongst the crowds and just spent half the day drinking and playing and rolling in the grass in my own happy and colourful delirium, occasionaly stopping to roll a joint and chill out.

I think I watched a kid of gypsy/brass band dance about parping out classic TV and film themes in a polish stylee, and i was again in heaven... Great tunes, great day...

I soon got lost in the blur of noise and sound and colour and concentrated on finishing this joint that i had been trying to roll for a number of minutes and soon i was engorssed in the licking and sticking and rolling (and it took me ages)...

At one point, (god knows how long i'd been sat there staring at my rizlas)I realised the music has stopped and it had gone ominously silent...

Without thinking I shouted 'Oi where's the music gone?'

and some cockney geezer piped up 'Shat ap you Cant there's a facking wedding g'an on'

I had no idea.... So i just proudly replied 'Carry on then!'

So apologies if i ruined your wedding vows, but you did choose to get married in a field full of drugged up meery makers didn't you. It's not my fault if i lost my mind.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 23:01, Reply)

MDMA
I took far too much at Glastonbury festival (i was spiked if anybody is asking *cough*)

My girlfriend told me what happened the next day.

I spent an hour or so watching a 'cartoon in a tree', i then spent another half hour watching 'golden ants coming out of my leg' and then tried to convince my girlfriend that i could see 'invisible writing' scrawled all over a napkin.

I then found £20 quid on the floor and we went for a chai in a tent, where i believe i freaked a number of people out by talking about golden ants following me.

She showed me the napkin the next day, which was sadly not magical in any way or form.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 22:51, Reply)

Beanz Meanz Painz
An acquaintance of mine - lets call her Louise, for that was her name - went to her first festival as a teen, choosing Glastonbury for the privilege.

It was back in the early nineties when it was all a little bit more anarchic than it is in these more corporate times, and there were many campfires around the fields. One group of lads thought it a jolly wheeze to throw tinned food into the fires, for the child-like joy of seeing cans explode.

Louise was rather tipsy on a heady mixture of cider, weed and ecstasy, and felt something hit her leg. The pain didn't really cut through her addled mind, though she knew somewhere inside that something quite bad had probably just happened.

She was awoken the next morning by a searing pain in her left leg and hauled herself out of her sleeping bag, not sure what to expect. The list of things that she didn't expect definitely included seeing a circular blister about four inches in diameter and an inch high covering her thigh. With a baked bean suspended perfectly inside.

Horrified she assembled her friends and they gingerly walked her to the first aid tent. Whereupon she was put into the 'drug casualties' section, for her wild-eyed hysteria about the "BAKED BEAN STUCK INSIDE MY LEG".

The next year she went back, managed to cop off with a bloke with a strange crustiness around the mouth and awoke to find herself covered in herpes sores.

Aaah, Louise. You were ace. I wonder where you are now... probably dead.
(roszser, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 22:39, 1 reply)

Anarchists vs. Hippies
Happy Daze festival, Bala, North Wales , 1989ish.

Great festival, picturesque surroundings, sun shining, it was idyllic.

On the Sunday afternoon a friendly cricket match took place between the anarchists and the hippies. The anarchists, being anarchists, ignored the rules of the game.

The highlight though was when a streaker ran onto the pitch, gracefully jumped over the wickets, pursued slowly by two stoned-looking dreadlocked "policemen".

Happy daze indeed!
( slapdash flying through the cool clean air since, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 19:10, 1 reply)

Once
I stood in a muddy field with Mr Kilmer and Mr Doonican. They had neckwear featuring pictures of small red felt hats.


It was one of my favorite Fez Tie Vals.
( Larry Death Anger Pain Fear Aggression, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 17:35, 3 replies)

Never have I ever...
Stayed with a girlfriend, whom I really couldn't stand, for free festival tickets...





*Drinks*
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:20, 7 replies)

A big, open apology
To the person who harangued me for shouting something, no doubt hilarious, about peadophilia whilst hammered on cheap gin at Reading '08.

I'm even more sorry for trying to dig myself out of what was no doubt a horrible joke about such a touchy subject.

The thing I'm most sorry for though is, after realising my wrongdoing, relieving myself all over your wellies and chasing you down the path screaming obscenities and covering myself in piss and gin.

I can understand this was probably quite tramatic and, admittedly, not the best course of action.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 14:57, Reply)

1988, Stonehenge, camped on Bill Oddie's land I believe
lots of the usual stories about massive over indulgence of acid etc

will cut a long story short with one anecdote

we'd lost a member of our party at some point the previous day. That night me and some friends went on a bit of a wandering acid/hash bender and through the night the group gradually whittled down to two of us. We were walking through some grass and bushes around 5am and followed a trail of empty EKU 28 bottles which were scattered along the side of a path through the grass. At the end of it we found a group of people who looked as though they'd stepped out of the 18th century, peasant style clothing, sitting around a bush playing mandolins etc. Inside the bush, holding onto the trunk for dear life we found our missing friend
(albinomeatpod, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 14:21, Reply)

Memento
One year at the Hultsfred festival in Sweden I decided to write down peoples names on my arm with a sharpie since I knew my memory wouldn't be able to store it anyways. I woke up the next morning with most of my body covered in names. It felt a bit like that movie Memento.
When I ventured outside the tent it seemed that I "knew" most people on that part of camp and every "Do I know you?" from me was countered by a "sure you do" *pointing at their name on my body* by them plus a story about some drunken mischeif I'd been up to.
Also: permanent marker on skin during summer is the recipe for an ugly ass tan.
(WelcomeToCopehagen, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:58, Reply)

Before i realised what 'glastonbury spirit' was...
... I could be a little on the 'schadenfreude' side of life, to put it mildly. As a 23 year old recent graduate with a penchant for dark humour and darker narcotics, Glastonbury 2005 was to prove to be both the pinnacle of my cuntishness, and the realisation that being pleasant to people was actually much more enjoyable than being witty and derisive. well, unless an old lady falls over in front of you of course.

the start of the festival started in what i imagine to be a similar experience to most people, well cynical fuckers like me anyway. Enjoying the spectacle, being amazing at the size of the place, and taking the piss out of hippes. I remember vocally enquiring how on earth some of the scabby troglodytes managed to scrape together the £120 entrance fee together selling big issues alone, and loudly wondering how a man with a dog on a string and nothing but Y-fronts on found a telephone line or an internet connection with which to buy a ticket. Anyhow, I digress...

after a full on first night of sniffing, imbibing, drinking and smoking we set off to find some of the hippy delights in store around glastonbury, providing cutting social commentary along the way. After a particularly interesting encounter with some poppers, I saw someone official looking and, as we were pretty much lost, i thought i would ask her where the nearest bar was. As I got closer to her, a lovely young lady of around 19, i noticed the flouro jacket she had on said 'samaritans' - I then asked her where the nearest bar was, to which she replied 'i'm sorry you'll have to ask one of the stewards', to which i replied, quick as a flash - 'if you don't tell me where the nearest bar is, i'm going to kill myself'.

Now i don't know if you've ever met anyone from the samaritans, but i learned a few things about them very quickly in the few seconds following that exchange. Namely:

1) They don't like jokes about suicide
2) They take threats of suicide very seriously
3) instead of telling you to fuck off (quite rightly so), they would rather explain to you why that is such a hurtful thing to say
4) They are amazing at making you feel guilty
5) They are very fit. Well this one was anyway - probably why i took on board what she said to be honest.

She made me feel so bad, that i actually had a mini epiphany - and spent the rest of the entire festival in such a happy go lucky mood, not getting annoyed by 'moonbeam' and 'cobweb' banging into me every 5 seconds stinking of incense, not batting an eyelid when someone comes over claiming to 'enhance your buzz' by blowing spittle onto your face and running their grubby fingers down your eyelids, and generally being bloody nice to everyone.

Jesting aside, I had an absolutely amazing time as i wasn't so wound up and angry, and i genuinely believe that it changed me for the better that day. i still tried to sit on people thining they were chairs (why is it always the largest, meanest looking blokes that you pick out as looking like a chair anyhow) and other acid-related jollies - but whenever i see yoghurt weavers now, i feel at least in some way connected to them, and i certainly understand why being nice to everyone and everything in your surroundings leads to a much happier, more peaceful existence.

Nice one glasto.
(the reverend JT, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:22, 1 reply)

Finally, a QOTW made for me.
I have only ever been to one music festival.

However, it was so fantastic that this year will mark my fifth consecutive attendance. I speak of the no-longer-sponsored-by-Carling Reading Weekend Festival. Christians have Christmas, Muslims Ramadan and Hindus Divali but this is the lynchpin of my calendar year.

When I leave Reading, I enter a period known as the “Post-Reading blues.” This is most severe immediately after the event although last year my mate Bill had a week-long free house to take the edge off. It peaks and dies during the frantic, high-pressure rush to buy tickets in March, at which point you enter “Pre-Reading blues” instead.

First, I wanted to post dozens of short stories about my time at Reading. I then realised that, without the context of the festival, they were meaningless and a tad boring. So then I set upon the idea of a compendium of stories but that would be far too long. So I’m compromising. You’ll find other stories scattered about this QOTW but this is the tale of my first ever night there.

~~~ (multitude of wavy lines) ~~~

August 25, 2005. I didn’t know it yet, but this, the day before my sixteenth birthday, would change my life. We decided to go to Reading because Iron Maiden were headlining. Originally we planned to see them in Paris but decided to go to Leipzig, Germany, instead. Then we changed our minds and decided Holland was a better option. These we even bought tickets for before Maiden were announced as Reading headliners and we snapped the tickets up.

Having packed the night before (severely overpacked as it happens, it being our first festival), we set off. Petley came in his dad’s car (his dad driving, Petley Jr being 16 at the time) and we bunged in our rucksacks. Three of our friends had gone ahead to set up our monstrous nine-man tent (only £100 and it lasted for three Readings before we gave it a drunken Viking funeral on the last day of 2007).

But first, a detour. Today we had to collect our GCSE results – this sheet of paper could make or break our festival. Would we be drinking to drown our sorrows or to celebrate our supreme intelligence?

Petley and I picked up everyone’s envelopes and set off to Reading. On the way we opened them. I had passed all but RE (considering my exam was a scathing attack on organised religion I was hardly surprised) and Petley had matched me. Initially he was very disappointed in his results before realising that he was looking at Iain’s. To pass the time through the hoards of traffic we played hangman on our GCSE certificates.

Finally we were deposited on the streets surrounding the field of dreams and we hoisted our luggage to follow the grimy crowd. We entered via the furthest Brown entrance. Our friends were in Green and if you’ve been you’ll know that’s about as far as possible. We trekked over safe in the knowledge that we’d find a freshly-assembled tent and a cold beer. Actually the tent was on the floor and our mates were drunk but everyone passing their GCSEs perked us up and we set it up. Petley and I rapidly caught up drinking and before we knew, it was 5pm and we were hammered.

We spent the night drunkenly meeting our neighbours including a group of Mancunian students, one of whom was jaw-droppingly fit, and a strange ginger man who sat on a chair staring at us all weekend. We even wrote a song for him to the tune of Bon Jovi:
“Wooah-oh, he’s got ginger hair
Wooah-oh, livin’ on a chair!”
In addition I went on a drunken wander and befriended a random group of strangers. This resulted in Martin and Egghead coming back to our tent after getting some food and having this conversation:
“Where the fuck is Matt, Egg?”
“Here isn’t he?”
“Well Iain and Petley are asleep there but no Matt.”
“He wouldn’t have wandered off on his own.”
“Hang on, I’ll ring him… yeah, Matt? Where the fuck are you? You’re WHAT? Christ!”
“Shit, what happened?”
“He says he’s with a girl!”
“No fucking way.”
No, I didn’t get any. She told me after that she would’ve if she was single but I think we all know that’s bollocks. Anyway…

Friday inevitably rolled around as it is want to do. Egghead had drunk a tad too much (20x 330ml bottles of Stella’s finest Artois as a 5’5” 16-year-old) and was feeling the effects – I woke up to the sight of him, head between knees on a camp bed, puking his guts out into our washing bowl thingummy. The five of us recognised that we’d just experienced one of the best nights of our lives.

I was then rudely interrupted by a phone call from my granddad, of all people.
“Hello?”
“Hello Matt, top o’ the mornin’ and a point o’ Guinness*!”
“… yes?”
“I was just ringing to say happy birthday.”
“Happy bir- oh, fuck, yeah. Cheers.”

A night so good you forget your birthday the next day? That got me hooked. Since then I’ve been to three more Readings and I’m going this year. Each have been fantastic and you can look forward to a multitude of stories from me over the course of the week.

You poor bastards.

Length? Four days but five if you get an Earlybird ticket for the Wednesday.

*He's Irish. He didn't actually say that but it was a clever narrative device to explain his ethnicity.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 1:22, 1 reply)

Bodger
Mates of mine went to glasto one year and saw the bloke from Bodger and Badger abosolutely ripped to the tits on drugs.

I don't go to festivals as the toilet situation gives me the fears.
(Just a girl., Thu 4 Jun 2009, 22:38, Reply)

Last 5 years at Reading
-Catapulting dead pigeons across campsite.

-Waking up from a drunken stupor to find two young punks drawing swastikas on my shins, only to tell them to fuck off cos I'm not Hindu.

-Having your mates sitting in the campsite for 2 days constantly shouting, " ELLO MAAAAYTE!! SHOW US YOUR COCK MAAAYTE!! FLOP IT OUT MAAAYTE!! " at anyone who walked within 20 metres of where we were camped.

-Getting more fucked up on substances Thursday night than any other night that weekend, it's tradition.

-Being bound in gaffer tape and rolled down a metal walkway with my arse out, while passers by gathered to slap it.

My friends have far more harsh tales to tell from the five years before. I'm hoping not to have any more as I'm not staying on the campsite this year....
(Grobie, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 20:23, 1 reply)

Come and warm yourself by this roaring candle.
A different type of festival to most of the ones here I think. A few years back my missus and I were involved in a local music festival which, rather than being in a field, was a series of traditional Scottish music concerts in various venues around the area.

The closing night was in a hall at the local distillery, and to make it pretty my wife was asked to make some candles with the festival's logo on (she does that sort of thing as a sideline).

The candles were made, put around the place and lit - I did wonder if the whole place would go up in a fireball as the whisky fumes ignited, but there wasn't a sniff of the stuff in the air - and it was all very atmospheric with the lights dimmed.

The place filled up with all sorts of people, including two coachloads of old folks on a tour. And away we went with the music.

Now this was summertime, and we were on an upper floor, and it was pretty well full, so it was all starting to get rather hot. Like quite a few of the people there, I made a bid for some outside air at the half-time whistle and headed downstairs.

Of course the way was blocked by various members of the Blue-Rinse brigade making their way one step at a time down towards the door. So I got a fine opportunity to overhear two of them wittering on about how hot they were.

"OOoch, it's verra hot in there is it no, Etty?"
"Aye, it is Morag, aye, verra hott"
"Are you no' feelin' that it's hot, Etty?"
"Och aye, it's hot alright, aye, verra hott, aye."
"Ach, it'll be all the candles. They put out a Terrrrrible heat, candles"

A terrible heat?

I wanted to rebrand them as OAP Winter Warmers, but apparently this was bad taste because when I rang the Council to suggest they might fund a distribution programme they put the phone down on me. Tight gits.
(richardm, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 17:12, Reply)

Tenuous, but worth telling (I hope)
A couple of weekends ago, as a favour to my girlfriend, I found myself in Dalton, Cumbria at their annual Medieval Festival, selling her friends chocolate.

While we were setting up, I got chatting to the guy and girl at the stall next to ours who was selling photographs. He looked about 40 and was dressed as a monk. The girl was dressed as a medieval wench, and a buxom one at that, but I stopped myself thinking about her breasts when I saw her childlike face as I didn’t want to be ‘that’ kind of person.

The festival started to get underway so for the next few hours, I did little than sell chocolate because despite being £1.95 for a tiny bar people seemed to love it meaning we were always busy. Then lunchtime came around and we started to quieten down, as people went off to eat or watch the street entertainment or (in huge numbers) congregate at the beer garden and get quite royally drunk, much to my envy.

So, in a quiet moment, I wandered off to look at the Monk and Wenches photos, although only the monk was there at the time, the wench must have been off doing whatever it is that young wenches do.

(By the way, I am becoming increasingly aware that you are probably expecting this to be some awful pun, but I assure you it’s not going to be)

Anyway, I was mightily impressed with the photos, and said as much to the monk, adding ‘Did your daughter take them all?’

Only to hear the angry words

‘Molly is my girlfriend’

And I spluttered some apologies and fled back to my stall and my barely able to control her hysterics other half.

You’ve never known discomfort until you have spent two hours being glared at by an angry, fake, possibly paedophile monk.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 17:01, 1 reply)

Whiting out...
A word of advice: if you are going to take recreational drugs at a festival, be very careful where you choose to enjoy them...

Reading 2005. Main stage. About 15 meters from the front. I'd been working my way forwards for quite a while, with the aim of being at the very front when the Pixies would grace the stage, and despite there being only one band left (the Killers, if you care) before them, I was confident. I was also carrying several joints, which I had been merrily smoking by myself (having lost my mates some time back). Just as the Killers came on, I thought I'd light up another one. One toke. Fine. Two tokes. Ooohh, spacey. Three tokes.

WHITE OUT!!!

Head rush, feeling sick, need to sit down. But I can't cos I'm in the middle of a huge fucking crowd. So I turn to escape. But I don't decide to head for the side, oh no. In my confused mind, the best way out is BACK THROUGH THE ENTIRE CROWD.

So I turn and start pushing my way, quite forcefully, through the mass of people trying to dance and jump around. You know that bit in a zombie film where there's one person desperately trying to fight their way out of a crowd of hundreds of the fuckers? I felt like that. Wave after wave after wave - no matter how many people I passed, more instantly took their place. I was freaking out. I felt like I was going to faint, my limbs were going numb, and I'm fairly sure that after about 30 seconds I was no longer walking - rather, I was continually falling, with each new set of people knocking me into an upright position, at which point I would fall through two of them and be pushed back upright by the next lot. I knew that if I were to hit the ground, I wouldn't be able to get back up again. Utterly terrifying.

After what felt like an hour (but it all happened within the timeframe of 'Jenny Was a Friend of Mine') the crowd thinned and I fell into a little clearing, landing face-first on the dirt and proceeded to desperately dry-heave, retching hard enough that the spasms were making my entire body bounce up and down. I must have looked like I was dying. Not that anyone came to help. No, they all just stared at the druggy freak.

After a while, I felt strong enough to crawl away from the site of shame, at which point I saw some friends I hadn't even known were at the festival camped out on a blanket. So I joined them, and eventually watched the Pixies from a nice, calm spot behind the chaotic crowd.

And had my last joint.
(HarryTheMole whatever's on my finger is going in your mouth, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:59, 1 reply)

I've never been...
...to a music festival. I'd like to though.

Well, that's as much as I have to add for this week :)
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:05, Reply)

The Download '06 "riots"
Guns n Roses are a bit shit.
If you believe otherwise then you are a bit shit as well.

We were right by the road though campsite you had to walk though to get to many of the others.

They played Sunday night, main stage - the band to play out the festival sort of thing. I didn't even bother going, we just decided to sit at the tent and drink more cider.
From out tent we could just about hear the main stage to tell what song was being played, I believed they opened with a famous one (as you do) a short while after the first song a massive group of people walk past us singing some song about GnR being, like I said, a bit shit.

We thought nothing of it, and headed off to our new friends who were camped in the next field and stayed there until about 3am drinking our lives away, when one of my mates and I decided it was time to go to sleep.

As we walking back there was one of the previously singing guys with a group of people rocking an icecream truck to tip it over and there was a large amount of tents in our campsite on fire, with the occasional gas canister explosion going off. People still singing.
As we were outside our non-burning tent a guy came up to the bin next to us took the bag of rubbish out and walked off - we thought it an odd hour to be litter picking so we followed him in a suitably stealthy way, we got to the entrance to our campsite where he emptied the bag onto an already flaming pile of rubbish in the middle of the entrance, which security had blocked off.

Oh joy - Blocked in a burning campsite with hundreds of nutters.
We went back to the tent to sit it out - dodging the people who were in the process of bending all of the lighting posts down so if the police/fire engines/ambulances did manage it though the gate of flaming rubbish they wouldn't be able to drive to other areas.

We sat in the tent for a while attempting to sleep with one eye open to make sure nobody burnt us alive.

6am - Nothing is scarier than being woken up in an unburnt tent in a still-flaming campsite by a man with a thick northern accent shouting "RIOT POLICE!" and shaking your tent.

We got out and saw the armored police all in a line walking slowly towards us - big shields and big sticks hand - in front of the riot van which is driver OVER the lighting poles which had now been bent to the floor by security men in front.

"Oh whats going on over there?" we think stupidly.
Us trotting up to the police - we get to a few meters away and they start walking a little bit quicker towards us shouting stuff
We did the clever thing - turning and running - much to the amusement of spectators who had all done the same thing, who we joined at the roadside to watch many others do the same casual wander up then run-like-fuck in the other direction.
Some people not so clever - walk up to the police - keep walking and get arrested/beaten/bitten by a police dog.



To date, this is still one of the best things in my life even though I slept through "the best 2 hours of it", I'm quite glad I did, I have never been more terrified. One of my favorite memories that!
(ecilA Alice...has nothing to do, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 15:20, Reply)

Download 06
One hell of a Hot weekend, No Glasto, the Prodigy booked to play a smaller stage, England in Euro 06. Metallica Blew G'n'R away. Axl Rose comes on Final Night of the festival. Complains about the Bottle throwing? What like he's never been to Dowload/Donnington before (last time G'n R where there 2 people died)
People were lighting fires in the Main Area, secutiity running around like Ants trying to put them out.
We being old farts over the age of 30 retire to our campsite, and are treated to the sight and sound of a Fekking massive bonfire punctuated by the steady boom of gas cannisters being chucked on and exploding. Evnetually we fall asleep, all in one tent for safety.
Somtime in the night Dowload campsite had become the set for Mad Max beyond Derby. Secutiry towers pulled down, lighting poles pulled down across the acsess routes to prevent fire engines reaching the fires.
That was all we could see. It was only when we got home and internet conections we found the full extent of what had happend. Riots, secutiry acting like thugs, Police charges.
All of which we slept through.
(Gru being trolled since 1998, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:05, 3 replies)

BERNARD!
A fair few Readings ago there was this annoying chap I will call c1.

He had a radio and a megaphone and liked to update the field we were camped in with all new football scores.

That is until the second day when someone decided to shut him up. This chap (c2) had a megaphone too and put it to good use. Here's all of the conversation that I remember. (I'm sure there was more but my drug addled memory fails me):

C2: "Shut up!"
C1: "No you shut up!"
C2: "Right, from now on your name is Bernard."
C1: "My one is bigger than yours Bernard."

Can;t remeber the rest.

For the rest of that Reading, and a couple after, the cry of "BERRRRNARD!" could be heard from all corners of the festival.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:46, Reply)

Wow.
"Tell us your experiences" appears to translate as "tell us you're yet another teenage white stoner at an average festival with no particular story to tell except how unamusingly off your face you were, or how you nearly got busted."

*yawn*
( sanityclause is waiting until, Thu 11 Jun 2009, 11:17, 5 replies)

I'm not
festivaling this year, due to the usual lack of cash and the fact that I loathe tents, festival toilets and drunk people in stupid hats.

But, nonetheless, I am a student and as such tradition dictates I wear a scruffy wristband for six months of the year. So, in deference to this fact, I am wristbanded until the damn thing falls off or gets marinaded in barbecue sauce and eaten by rodents. In deference to an abominably middle-class streak, my wristband is from the Chelsea Flower Show.

(In mitigation, there's a long story behind it involving compulsory work experience, a well-known if not well-read Sunday newspaper and a stall giving out free posters. It made a change from MPS' EXPENSES OMG.)
(Shinigami, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 13:56, Reply)

I went...
...to the Underage Festival.

It was awesome.

G. Glitter
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 13:22, 1 reply)

T in the Park 2006 (or was it 7?)
Bloc Party were midway through their set and the crowd were loving it. This was at the height of their popularity, although perhaps a few people were really waiting for The Killers who came on soon after.

Anyhow, I was at the front (I got a close up on 'telly!) and during the lull between songs, where people had finished cheering and were talking fairly queitly among themselves, I shouted at the absolute top of my voice, in a way that only an inebriated Scotsman can:

"AHHH FUCKKIN' LOVE YEEEEEEEEEEE"

To which numerous people in the crowd had a good wee chuckle. The front man Kele Okereke heard my drunken drawl, had a laugh and went "we love you too!".

So that's why Bloc Party love ME! I don't even like their music that much!
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Wed 10 Jun 2009, 10:37, 2 replies)

Came back from the Sunrise festival last week
It was actually rather pleasant - sorry about that.

The best bit was the last night when my daughter (13) and I stayed up to watch the sunrise. We listened to really great music (Baka Beyond and Inner Heights if anyone cares) until about 3 am, then sat in a temporary garden filled with prayer bells and wind chimes that somehow wasn't cheesy watching the sky get brighter. Then we went over to stand by the main fire pit and watched the sunrise to the sound of people bongo-ing and a drunk irritable scouser playing the guitar badly.
Then we ate egg baps and laughed at people having dizzy races, and finally went to bed at about 7am.
(teasus likes tea, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 20:07, Reply)

7 county wide police search for little me.
When I was 17 and in care, I asked my social worker if I could go to the Reading festival, and unsurprisingly, she said no.
Irritated, I visited the local underage pub and met up with a few dodgy mates, who sold me my first ever acid tab.
They were going to the 'white goddess free festival' in Camelford, Cornwall (of the blue hair and evil water) and in my altered state I decided to go with them.
We hitched there, and I have several very confused memories of the trip. It would seem we walked straight into Paignton zoo at one point, and I recall the bloke with the tent vanished with our home on his back. I also remember about seven of us being picked up by a normal looking bloke and his daughter when we were hitching along a deserted road.
I had a great time at the festie. I talked to a man who was still on an acid trip from some tabs he'd dropped about 25 years previously, and saw some woman dancing madly and not even noticing when a police helicopter landed 50 yards from her. The festie lasted about a week although it was supposedly a weekend one.

On the last day, having taken all my money out of the cash machine twice (those were the days) and having my card swallowed when I tried again, I wandered around the festie asking if anyone had any spare drugs, as I'd none left. Strangely enough mixing speed and mushrooms really monged me out. I don't know why.

When I went home, I found that the police had been looking for me in 7 counties, but not Cornwall. Huzzah!
(teasus likes tea, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 19:57, 1 reply)

Oh I've just remembered
I went to Creamfields debut once, a few years back (maybe 98?) as a wee nipper. I obviously wasn't going clubbing, I was just with my step-dad, dropping off some equipment for somebody.

We parked 1 mile away, and once my little legs had yomped to the entrance, the first thing I saw was a massive hairy bloke, wearing skin tight PVC hotpants that laced up the side, knee high doc martens and a PVC waistcoat jacket thing.

I nearly shat my pants. I didn't know about the village people at 12.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 20:47, Reply)

My first (and probably last) Glastonbury...
...last year. The one that Jay-Z 'head'lined (and no, we didn't see his 'act'; R'n'B isn't big or clever, or at least so-called 'contemporary R'n'B' isn't).

My erstwhile friend and I, slightly inebriated and turning slightly pink in the Saturday sunshine decide we're hungry. 'Watch this' he proclaims. He proceeds to wait in the queue at a vegetarian food stall, which is about 2 people long.

When his turn comes around, he purveys the bill of fare, pauses, looks up at the purveyor of wares and states 'No seriously; where's the food?'.

It's people like that that ruin it for everyone else...
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Mon 8 Jun 2009, 15:50, 2 replies)

2 friends of mine, a couple, went to a big music festival for 4 days, when they got back they both looked distinctly worse for wear for it, and the excitable chat went something like this:
He: Yeh, well we had a bag of skunk with us and some pills on the first day
Her: And then we found that bag of whizz!
He: Oh YEH that was great!
Her: Yeh, we been awake for like the whole 4 days on that shit, huddled over fires, we never took a tent, it's a good job it didn't rain, LOL!
He: And then someone had some shrooms!
Her: Yeehh, ooooooh, they were nice! Went lovely with the Es they did...
He: The whizz was the best one tho, I mean fancy just finding that! BIG bag!
Her: You thought it was coke at first din't you?
He: Aye but it was too rough to snort! Had to rub it under me tongue or add it to water!
Her: Shame nobody had any acid, you can't seem to get acid anymore...

Etc etc etc ad nauseum, until I ventured into this 'discussion', 'Soooo, what bands did you see?

Where upon they looked at each other with somewhat puzzled looks and he stutteringly offered (whilst still looking at her for confirmation), 'Erm, I, I think one of the Rolling Stones was there, wasn't he...?'

Ok...
( ..wil, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 19:50, 1 reply)

Big Day Out '99
I'm a massive Metallica fan so the moment I heard they were playin that year tickets were rapidly purchased.

So off me and a mate toddle to the depression in the countryside known as the Milton Keynes Bowl and a thoroughly good day was had by all, well when I say all there was an exception that springs to mind.
Firstly the rock festival tradition of human pyramids, the one performed on this day was one of the highest I've seen in over 15 years of festivalling for those that haven't seen this beautiful monstrosity think a rugby scum turned on its end (in this case both in height and constituent parts) this was made all the more impressive by the fact that the ground is at a 40 degree angle!!

So this things about 25 feet high and all around are pleasantly high/pissed and are enjoying the feat then a young girl I can only describe as slight (it would've taken 5 of her to make one of the monsters in the pyramid) she then proceeds to scale the outside of the structure all the way to the top then raises her hands in triumph and falls head first to the ground below.

The Paramedics were quick to arrive as they could see the pyramid from quite a way away so a pile of bodies descends on her and 20 mins later she emerges cling-filmed to a spinal board never saw or heard what happened to her after that but let that be a warning kids when there's a lot of booze and drugs around ignore there person who says the words "I've got a great idea" in my experience it usually ends up in A&E
(Womble Lover Is in the corner kicking the cat, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 17:17, 1 reply)

A mate of mine
Once told me that his mate, many years ago had taken too many fly agaric mushrooms at Glastonbury festival.

A few days later he came around.

Pushing a volkswagon beetle on the hard shoulder of a motorway.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 16:35, Reply)

Loudest rig ever.
The Boom festival. Portugal.

So loud, that even camping two hills away, it still sounded like we were trying to catch some shut eye in a night club.

Added risks:

* Deceptively deep lake. Great for swimming in when high.

* Far too hot. Our beer cans were extremely hot to the touch. I was the cheeky fucker who managed to blag a HUGE block of ice from the beer stall,for our food and drinks. 'Twas a proud moment walking my white, lanky ass back amongst all the beautifuly tanned europeans. They might have looked sexy, but i had fucking ice baby!

* Scorpions.

* Giant ants. Luckily they weren't posionous (as i fell asleep on their nest and woke up covered in them).

* Deceptively sharp grass. Don't swim round the festival barefooted and then walk all the way back barefooted (see scorpions and giant ants again).

* Far too many varieties of drugs.

* Deciding it would be a good idea to sleep in the cool chill out tent, and then falling into some strange kind of feverish nightmare (when the DJ started playing dark ambient stuff)

* The pink naked guy. Full body paint. Off his nut on acid or something.

* Don't leave your spare trainers under your car, thinking 'they'll be safe here, cost it's a hippy festival and everyone is really nice'. They will get stolen and presumably sold for drugs.

Kudos to the people who couldn't get into the festival and set up their own illegal 'anti-boom' across the lake.

Further Kudos to the bloke who sneaked into the Boom festival after swimming over the lake from the Anti-Boom.


:)
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 16:29, Reply)

The night I knew cannabis wasnt right for me. delighting japanese tourists and the beanfield fiasco
Stonehenge free festival sometime back in the 80s.
Was a part time new age traveller and funded my life by selling jewellery, hash pipes and chillums at festivals.
So there Iam at Stonehenge. one of the crowd who tear down the barrier and storm the sacred stones on the Solstice morning, the police just step back, one cop to each 50 revellers they really couldnt do anything else.
And what a day that followed.
To say I got wasted is an understaement.
Late that night when I just couldnt function any more I decided to call it a day and find my tent/bed.
Wandered around until I found myself in front of a tent that looked like mine.
Unzipped the door, looked in and thought 'no this isnt my tent'
So wandered around the site again.
Came back to the same tent.
Again I looked.
Oooh they have the same sleeping bag as me.
They have the same rucksac as me, but this is not my tent.
Another circuit of the festival brings me back to that tent again.
Ooh they have the same jewellery cases as me, and a box of chillums like mine, but this is not my tent.
Another few circuits with the same results and I end up thinking ' I dont care whos bloody tent this is I'm going to sleep in it.
Wakes next day in my tent surrounded by my things and the realisation I wasted about 4 hours of my life I'll never get back due to being so wasted I didnt recognise my own tent and belongings.
I quit the weed right then.
Was 10 yrs before I imbibed again and then I just fell asleep.
Weed is just isnt for me.

At the same festival I got naked, lay down in the teepee village to get an all over tan, legs spread.
Was chilling out until I heard a commotion.
A group of 20+ japanese tourists all clicking away and chattering excitedly .
Looks up, shrugs and lets them get on with taking pics of large naked english hippy lady.
That could probably been included in last weeks unexpected nudity QOTW

For some reason I decided to hitch home and left all my belongings in a travellers bus.
Next seen on national TV when the Battle of the Beanfeild made the news.
I watched a bus being smashed up on TV with my stuff on board.
Met up with them later and got my belongings back.


Festivals?
The 80's really had it nailed
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 1:20, Reply)

My friend asked me to come to a festival.
I took way too much 'special K', stripped down to my underpants, and started telling everyone how much I loved them while stroking their cheeks. My friend was really embarrassed after I did this to someone he knew, he started telling me I was a disgrace and he wished he'd never invited me. In my 'delicate' state it kind of freaked me out and I started thinking everyone was looking at me and talking about me. I was shaking, hiding from everyone, almost crying...I had to have a few cold ales to calm down, and I was still a bit jumpy for the rest of the time. Ian Paisley was good though.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 7 Jun 2009, 0:27, Reply)

Two words my friends
WooD StocK

A salute those who were there and blazed the trail for the rest of us!!
(tingtwatter Eating loads of red meat since, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 21:07, 3 replies)

Pop-up Pirate
At Leeds there is the legend of a man who lurks in the disgusting faeces-filled trough beneath the campsite loos & occasionally livens up people's toilet experiences by sticking his head up through the loo seat & yelling "Pop-up Pirate!". I don't know if he is real, but I check every time...just in case...
(Katurian, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 14:41, 2 replies)

Class Act.
When you spend nigh on a hundred quid for a weekend ticket, the last thing you want to do is swap your bottle of JD for 10 pieces of hash fudge, eat them all, then eat 24 odd pro-plus pills, drink lots of lager and then fall over laughing so hard you wee yourself and miss the first day of the festival feeling ill. But I did just that. What a class act.
(Biromunch, Sat 6 Jun 2009, 0:56, Reply)

Glasto and the Hat
Being of a tall persuasion, and having a fetching reddish pork pie hat - when in crowds some years ago at the mighty Glasto - and when friends became displaced the call of "follow the Hat" would go up. I duly hold the hat up and said lost friends find their way to the hat.

Didn't account for the 25 or so random happy people with no direction of their own at about 2am from the stone circle who ended up following us back to our camp. Great party, but some of the most gloriously weird people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. All of whom were walking off licenses and pharmacies, so much fun was had by all.
(Stewaddy-waddy, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 23:59, Reply)

big chill 2007
went with my friend evie. she brought the tent. now, i am NOT in my natural habitat in a tent. there is nowhere to chill the pink moet and there is nowhere to plug in my straighteners. so i bought a stupidly expensive airbed (only been used the once, anyone want to buy an airbed?)to make it a bit more comfortable.

it took us about an hour to put that tent up, in full public view. there was not enough room and evie had only brought some of the bits, so we had to tie half the ropes to other people's tents, like some sort of parasite tent. and it lurched sideways, and it was so crooked the zip did not fasten. disaster.

the big chill is a great laugh, and we were lounging around happily drinking champagne cocktails from a jug, watching some old american dude play fabulous blues on stage, when i clocked a guy selling brownies. LOLZ, DRUGZ!!!!!!! so we bought four, completely ignoring his recommendation that we only had one each if we weren't big smokers. which we weren't. the brownies tasted like shit, but they were effective as fuck, the whole world started spinning and every last thing was hilarious. esp the guy who was so stoned himself that he walked into a mud puddle that came up to his tits right in front of us.

at about 6pm we thought we'd better go and put our makeup on for the evening festivities. so we staggered all the way back to the crippled tent, which was a huge effort as the ground kept moving, and got in it to get ready. and the next thing we knew, it was 8am...... we'd slept through 14 hours of dance festival. we were absolutely furious with ourselves. but we did feel fucking fantastic!

the only thing i do remember is that i was woken up at about 1am by the couple in the tent next to us having a screaming row. he had been through her mobile phone and found some incriminating shit, and she was trying to deny it. so all i could hear was her yelling:

"it's not what it sounds like!" and him replying:

"it's not what it sounds like? [PLAYING HER VOICEMAIL MESSAGES OUT LOUD] he can't wait to taste your sweet cunt and come inside you, what the fuck else can he mean?????"

so not everyone there was chilled. but overall it's a great weekend, and they even have proper toilets and showers for people like me who are showing their age! anyone going this year??? as i'm stuck at work on a feckin friday night, fantasising about it is cheering me up...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 22:58, 1 reply)

Miracles can happen...
Reading, 2008. My first time at this festival (I'd been to V 2006, but that's a bit different, and this time I was with my mates), and I'd made it to Sunday night without too much drama. Granted, the people camping next to us (friends of friends of friends don't make the best camping buddies) almost set our tent on fire Saturday night, but I'd had a sweet weekend.

Sunday night came and I left my metal fan friends to go to the second stage on my own. Conor Oberst, very good. The Last Shadow Puppets, excellent, no drama, looking forward to the Cribs. I want to celebrate making it to the end of the weekend in style.

So during the second-to-last Cribs song I decide to crowd-surf from 40-odd feet away from the stage. I'm not best suited, I'm six foot, and all knees and elbows. Sorry if you were one of the many I landed on on the way.

Anyway, karma meant that I lost my trainer. I was quite gutted, I'd made it so far and it's all gone to pot. Nevermind, I brought it on myself, I watched the last song from the side of the tent then as people were leaving thought I'd have a poke around in the rubbish to find it. People were being ushered out quickly, and a security guard came over as I was trying to retrace my journey to the front of crowd.

"Come on mate, we need to pack up, move out of the tent"

"But I've lost my shoe..." (Probably half-wailed in despair)

"You need to go NOW!"

Head down, I turned to leave, when something caught my eye.

On the ground.

In front of me.

MY TRAINER!

Kids, a lot of beautiful moments happen at festivals - love, great music. But nothing can compare to the sheer joy of knowing you don't have to spend the walk to the tent and a hungover coach journey to Bristol wearing one shoe.
(Dizzy Steinway, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 18:59, Reply)

haha right
I went to a festival and got really muddy

and I did some drugs and had some sex!

and none of this is made up or a cry for help about my internet self-diagnosed autism.

Cheers,
moohalaa
( moohalaa, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 17:27, 3 replies)

stoneage conditions
prevent me from attending festivals as well as :

1) prefering drugs to booze and subsequently,
2) requiring a shower and clean clothes every 24hrs minimum, and then
3) liking a nice comfy place to rest/collapse

My mate however has been to several and recounts the only festival story that sticks in my mind -

while partaking in the horrific act of venturing inside a portaloo, he's presented with a steamy mountain of Dantean proportions, as he's only after a piss this seems temporarily bearable and while using one hand to steady himself sets about draining his tank. At this point a fat poofly takes off from the back of the mountain and starts buzzing around the cell. Fearing the kiss of the poofly, he uses the only weapon available since both hands are occupied and 'ghostbusters' style tries to knock out the fly with the stream of piss, this results in him pissing over most of the inside of the cell and still failing to get the fly. With the draining over he escapes to freedom before the poofly can slime him, a lucky escape.

I doubt that the cell was much worse off after the hosing down than before, the horror, the horror. Give me a long night in a club any time.
(amazinglasercow now sporting terawatt mining lasers, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:42, 4 replies)

November 3rd, 1991 Australian Grand Prix, Adelaide
Trying to impress young lady

Gold Pass tickets, Brabham straight $260.00
Double spa room, Hyatt Regency, Adelaide $180.00
Lots of overpriced drinks $100.00

Race being stopped after 16 of 81 laps due to torrential rain that turned everything into a swamp, her saying "well at least we can stay for the after race concert!", waiting 6 hours in the pissing rain and mud to see Paul Fucking Simon!

Priceless
(wallynothere rnot without protection, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:44, 2 replies)

Provoking the hippies to fisticuffs
The band we had - SkinTrade - used to be a regular at the Witchfests - a festival of hippies, pagans and goths celebrating magical bits of stick and like really beautiful pieces of coloured glass.

One year once again we got the graveyard slot playing about 3pm, but they paid us well and the rider was pretty decent.

So after the set we crashed into our beer and wine with aplomb, and soon found ourselves having to buy our own bleedin drinks at the inflated Croydon Festival Hall bar prices.

However, a while later we were told that they'd sorted our cheque out, so we were to report up to the band admin suite for it. We all staggered up and in, and were greeted with the sight of an enormous tower of beer! Hooray!

"So, can we have some more beer then, please Ms Goth-in-charge-of-money-an-beer?"

"No that's the collective rider for all of the bands - you've had yours."

"Ah gowan - jus a lirrl beer, no?" and our bass player pulled one out and popped it.

Ms Goth calls "SECURITY!" and sure enough Wannabe Lemmy and his equally biker friend turns up. They see there's four of us, so call "Breaker! Tod!"

And we're seen off premisis. For a beer.

They have a low sense of humour threshold, do hippies, and aren't quite into being as caring and sharing as you might imagine.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:29, Reply)

Brilliant!
I'm so glad this has been asked at last.


I'd been to a few mini festivals before but my first big one was Glastonbury 2007. To put it mildly, I went a bit daft and indulged in a few *ahem* excesses. One of the deciding factors in this was the fact I'd decided to go on my own, since most of my friends had a violent aversion to music/camping/eating food from a van. Disaster struck when I was staying at the Travelodge in Bristol. Was a nice evening and I decided to venture out for some food. Suddenly, without warning, the heavens opened and soon the water was literally running down the street like a river:

When I got back to the Travelodge, I realised I'd need my wellies well before getting on-site, because most of the street and the lobby had flooded, rendering the lifts un-useable. I trudged up 4 flights of stairs leaving the muddiest marks possible and wondering what several sponge-like fields would now look like.

The next day I got the coach from across the road and started chatting to a friendly bunch from Scotland. We cracked open a few beers on the journey (well, more than a few), not taking into account the fact that beer+standstill traffic = toilet disaster. Still, the lads of the group weren't to be discouraged and when the coach came to a particularly glued-up junction, asked the driver if they could hop off to water the verge. No sooner had they relieved themselves when the traffic miraculously started moving and the coach drove off. Everyone stampeded to the back of the bus to see the view of several men running down the road with their cocks hanging out, yelling and waving their arms.


As anyone who was there or saw the news about this time knows, Glastonbury 2007 was a veritable mudbath, and to get through it you had to be completely wankered. So in true survival spirit me and a group of people I started hanging with started on the white powders on Friday, and the fun truly began.
Some things I remember from the next few days:

Jumping on someone's coolbox full of beer during the Klaxons, breaking it and sending beer scattering everywhere. Also jumping on neighbour's toes and generally pissing off anyone in a 5-metre radius.

Passing out on the longdrops, somehow coming round when it was dark and having missed several acts I wanted to see.

Getting VERY confused and panicky during Bjork- running around grabbing people by the collar and sobbing wildly 'for god's sake HAVE YOU SEEN THE PINK UMBRELLA??!!'
I ran into the cast of Sesame Street who looked after me and the honey monster came along and lifted me on his shoulders: thanks guys!

Standing (I think I was vertical?) outside the portaloos with my legs and arms spread-eagled, yelling "Hang your bags on me!", getting some shocked looks from some Rah girls in Louis Vuitton wellingtons.

Trying to piss in a bottle in my tent because I was too drunk to go to the portaloos, but being female only succeeded in peeing all over where I had to sleep.

Freaking people rolling in the Glade by drawing Pan's Labyrinth eyes on the palms of our hands (and later middle of forehead, tips of fingers etc)

The morning after that night I woke up to find shit all over me, including under my clothes. I can only conclude that I must've rolled around in a portaloo naked, then got changed again.

As a parting shot, I picked up the best sequence of photos ever on the Sunday:






If at first you fail...

try, try, try again

(I'm not here was here on, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 10:57, 3 replies)

Knebworth..
1978

Just before Genesis came on my mate decided he needed a piss.
As the entire crowd was stood up awaiting the gig, moving away really wasn't an option, so he decided to piss in an HMV bag.

It's only in circumstances like that, you realise just how many tiny holes are in a plastic bag.

The sight of him running around with this bag, spraying piss in all directions will stay with me forever....
(greatoldone Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl f'tagn, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 9:47, Reply)

Big and Clever Day Out
During my travels in Melbourne I had the fortune of being in the right place at the right time, on the 26th of Jan was the mighty Australia Day. The natives take Oz Day as seriously as English people take St. Patrick’s Day at home. I had been looking forward to beach parties, clubs, all nighters and a raucous time, but it didn’t work out that way. I ended up going to see one of the biggest selling artists of all time instead.

By chance the travelling festival Big Day Out was on Australia Day in Melbourne, so it was like your birthday and Christmas all at once. Poor Jesus, I’m sure he gets a bigger present than just a birthday present, but it probably isn’t as good as two presents.

I got a ticket and joined a stack of people from the hostel who were all heading down - except they started redoing their hair or something. Bored of waiting myself and Jono the Kiwi jumped into a taxi with a 19 year old ‘Doctor’ we met on the street, mercilessly ripped the piss out of him for the whole ride, and made it to the festival good and early ready for some dancing. I was officially the only kilted man at the festival, and as a result I met loads of people – plus the festival was remarkably well organized (apart from the ‘Proof of Drinking Age’ bands and beer tokens). Learn things TiTP; have more bars.



I/we/I again saw loads of bands; The Grates; The Vandas; Simian Mobile Disco; Sneaky Sound System; Pendulum; The Silent Disco is always fun; Arctic Monkeys; Neil Young and the Prodigy. Very the fun. The best thing about the BDO though came from an idea I had years ago whilst I was at TiTP. I’m sure it’s a coincidence, but maybe, just maybe, a multinational company got into my head and ripped off my amazing idea. At the BDO they have two main stages sandwiched together, meaning that there is about five minutes between headline bands. One stage plays whilst one is rigged. Genius. I thought of that years ago, but I’m lacking in the other million aspects of putting on a festival.

We got a train back into the city after seeing the Prodigy rip Melbourne apart, and I turned up the Scottishness just once more. I got talking to a couple of guys about the bands they’d seen, then moved on subtly to the girls they were with. One of them was paler than a new borne albino polar bear. I’m scared of the sun, I don’t want to get burnt, I do everything I can to avoid getting burnt – but when you’re Australian I’d have thought that after twenty five years or so you’d build up a little bit of resistance and colour. Not this girl. Milk bottle doesn’t quite describe the blankness of her skin. I was almost expecting the Dulux Sheepdog to run by with a can of emulsion. Anyway, I pretty much told the entire train this, much to my amusement. I’m almost sure other people were enjoying the banter, but let’s face it that’s never really been my concern, so long as I laugh I’m happy.

The white girl was joined by a few of her mates and the banter started back and forward about the kilt etc, and by the time we’re pulling into the city we’re all getting on like a house on fire. I suggest that we’ve all missed the last trams to the districts anyway, so why not head for a pint and buddy up with others to get home in a cheap taxi. There were a few awkward glances, a couple of coughs and no takers. Now I’m not one to give up so easily on a party, so trying to get a positive ‘Yes’ from them I say something along the lines of ‘Come on, it’s a laugh, we’ll get some pints, we’ve all got our drinking bands on haven’t we?’

“Um….we’re….um….”

You’ve never heard me ask for clarification for something so loudly before. The entire train erupted in laughter, stifled guffaws and straight out side splitting. I had to bite down on my hat to stop from crying. For five minutes. The bridal gown girl turned bright red all over and everyone else in the group didn’t know what to say.


They were sixteen years old.


Just as well I wasn’t flirting with them, Officer.

I’ve barely talked to someone that has a favourite teacher in the last ten years, and when I eventually do, I’m drunk with an audience on a train.

meh
( The Lurker Plenty One, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 2:20, Reply)

Free shit is good shit
Went to Getloaded on Clapham common like two years ago?
Anyway The Streets were headlining and my mate is related to Mike Skinner so he asked me if i wanted to come for free (No.1).

So we get there and have a walk around watched Peter Bjorn and John? and checked out a few of the various stages. (M.I.A., Dizzee Rascal,Digitalism, DJ Yoda anyone?)
The group decided to grab some food and headed off to get some burgers etc, wasn't really feeling it (Does stuff to my stomach).
Oh yeh I'd gone to the public toilets and they were foul already... it was like 2pm and it had started at 10am not to mention it was a single day festival??

So we trot off to the "Guest" area with our special wristbands. So theres a free bar (no.2) as a standard thats always a good thing.

So bare in mind everyone has eaten bar me, over on the far side theres a stall with the people from the local Nandos cooking it up for everyone. I approached asking people on their way back with their full plates what the deal was, all told me it was being laid on for free!(no.3)
Brilliant!

Then whilst i was munching down free Nandos and drinking free cider two very nice women came over and gave us some free posh ice-cream(no.4)

Then on the way out to watch a few bands etc a man working for volvic gaves us like a crate of touch of fruit to share between our group (no.5)

After the Streets performed we headed back to the guest area to re-group and as they had to get rid of everything to take the site apart that night.
Being the only people there we were treated to crates of volvic, boxes of haribo,bottles of cider and beer, and leftover nandos.
Best day ever!!
(Bludfoot rushing out since, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 23:59, Reply)

reading festival 2007
The year is 2007 and i am throughly enjoying my first ever music festival.

Me and two of my friends are walking along the campsite to our tents, when a young lady of about the same age bumps into me pretty hard, almost knocking me over, and making me drop my beer.

"watch where your going love"...and sauntered off....rather cooly if i do say so myself.

she went mental. Started yelling at me about how it was my fault for not looking where i was going, and that i was a complete dickhead. I cowered in shame as she literally went red in the face screaming at me, the occasional wimper escaping from my frightened mouth. Eventually the abuse stopped and she stormed off.

At this stage my friends were absolutely pissing themselves laughing at me. So as she walked off, I thought i'd yell something at her to save what little dignity i had left.

I'm sure many people know the feeling of trying to think up an insult on the spot and it failing miserably. So in as loud a voice as i could muster I yelled at her:

"well.....you've got rubbish hair!!"

Even the bloke in the fucking angels and airwaves t-shirt shook his head at me.
(apo-dap, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 20:15, 2 replies)

Glastonbury
Got there on the Wednesday in glorious sunshine. We'd got tickets, we'd bought a tent, we'd carried it an hour to our campsite.

Nothing was really set up but we wandered round enjoing the sight of it all being built, the campsite fun, etc.

Thursday was spent working out what we were going to see and how much fun it would all be. Saw some craziness, drank lots of Brothers cider and went to bed happy as festival virign could be.

Friday was the worst rain ever. It started at 1am and was still going 10 hours later - it made a monsoon want to hang it's head in shame. Mrs WM was crying her eyes out as she was so unhappy, we had the only waterproof tent so the rest of our mates wanted in.

We tried to get out of our camp area and to the stalls to buy wellies and pretty much needed boats. A decision was made - we left.

We left the tents, the duvet, the sleeping bags and took only what we could reasonably carry with us. Her in her pink wellies, me wrapped in bags muttering the words 'thought i'd be able to get wellies here (I could but by the time you got there you were so muddy and wet it was pointless).

We crossed the entire site in 2 hours, avoiding overflowing cesspits, knocked over toilets, miles of flooded tents and destruction. It was like Paris on steroids - rivers of brown shit and slush everywhere.

Taking the train home (our mates had decided to stay) we heard that half the stages were underwater and damp and everything would be late/cancelled, etc. We both felt terrible, it was like the walk of shame without the sex.

Got home and decided the £500 we'd drawn out would be blown on the best weekend we could manage. We spent the next few days drunk and eating amazing food in a 5 star hotel in London.

A fortune spent on tickets and camping gear and the only music we heard the whole time; Nice weather for ducks by Lemon Jelly.
(Wooden meal is. Or is he?, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:45, 2 replies)

Glasto tickets? How much!?!?
During the "bliss" that was supposed to be married life I took £500 of my hard saved money and gave it to the wife with the instruction she pay off her maxxed credit card and close it as we were struggling a bit with money.

Imagine my joy when 2 days later I find out instead she's spent the lot on glastonbury tickets & other crap for herself (for just 4 days later) and expected me to stay home with our daughter while she spent 3 days getting pissed in a field and no doubt cheating on me.

Understandably we're now divorced.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 16:32, Reply)

Beautiful Days 2006
The last night of the festival and a bunch of people have already gone home. Not many bands left to play, so we wolf down the remaining hash truffles.

The next few hours are spent either giggling like school girls or bellowing with laughter like Brian Blessed as we sing lines from Shuttupayourface at each other.

Good times, good times.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 15:53, 7 replies)

You can keep your festivals
I realised something might be wrong with me upon realising that (at 20 years old) a ladies magazine summed up my attitude to festivals. My lady flatmate had a copy of "Red", with a cover sub headline that read:

"What do you mean there are no showers!?"

Anyways, I hate summer. And crowds. And people in general.
( The Vomiting Hitchhiker Mephistopheles is such a mouthful in Manhattan, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:37, 2 replies)

Beware the Fudge
Reading Festival 2000 on the Saturday night. The line up was shall we say, not one of their finest.

We went to see Pulp and in the middle of the second song, Jarvis Cocker stopped the band mid song, demanded that all the houselights be switched on. The field was a mass of people silently staring at the stage, all drenched in bright white light. When he told the crowd to sit down, 60,000 people did so in a uniformed manner, leaving just me stood over the hordes. Sheepishly I sat down with everyone else awaiting further instructions, this was the start of a revolution or I was witnessing a mass coming together in front of a band I never really cared for.

Then it hit me. The back of my mates hand round my head. I'm sat in a puddle of mud, staring into the sky, soaked through, going through what I believe is a naked lunch moment.

In short, if you see a hippy called Kate selling fudge in the campsite, send her my best.
(Peacocke, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 14:17, Reply)

How to clear a field in two minutes (incorporating Sarah Cracknell's minge)
So, I paid good money to go to the Reading Festival one year.

One of the big drawers was Siouxsie and the Banshees, playing their first dates in absolutely YEARS, and there was much anticipation as a bumper crowd assembled in front of the main stage.

The band came on, they played their new single ("Kiss them for me"), the crowd cheered their anticipation, and Siouxsie stepped up to the mic to welcome the audience.

"We're not going to treat you like kids and play any of the old stuff... here's a track from the new album."

It was Spinal Tap Jazz Odyssey, all over again. I was pretty near the back, and the sight of 20,000 people physically slumping, saying "Fuck it" and wondering over to the second stage will live with me for a long time.

At the same festival I also saw Sarah Cracknell out of St Etienne's minge by mistake. That, too, will live with me for some time.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:47, 4 replies)

Quickie for a start
National Student Drama Festival 2006.

Experimentation on how much gaffa tape is needed to hold someone up.

Answer - 1 roll
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Thu 4 Jun 2009, 13:45, Reply)