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)

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)

Download Festival... forget the year...
but it was the one where Slipknot's drummer played with Metallica. Anyone who's actually a fan of either band would know better than me, I think it was '04.

I decide to go for the full-length experience, not giving a real shit about any of the bands on the lineup but deciding anyway that it'd be fun, and I might pull (I didn't!).

Strangely, the camping was far less than horrible, and gave me an opportunity to feel really superior and well organised. My buddies had brought bedding, makeup, various vanity items and millions of clothes, yet had neglected to bring any of the following:

1x Camping Gaz stove plus gas
1x Hexyburner plus fuel tabs
1x set of mess tins
Many small foldable pots and pans
1x FUCKTON of tinned or easily stored/prepared foodstuffs
Tea, coffee, sugar (and strangely, chicken stock cubes which make an awesome drink and keep your salt levels sensible)
Bottled water, and LOTS of it!
Medicine, including normal non-opiate painkillers, immodium, and those sachets of stuff you use to restore electrolytes in the event of "the shits".

So, I was a hero being the only one actually prepared for camping. I didn't spend ANY money on burgers etc which meant more for beer, and avoiding the junkfood meant I also escaped having the shits or needing to use the festival PortaBogs more than a couple of times (a piss can be done anywhere in an emergency). I actually really enjoyed the camping, always have, and given the weather was absolutely beautiful it was truly a pleasure, in spite of how heavy my cargo was.

The downside to the experience was, unfortunately, the whole point of going to a festival. After wandering the grounds, exploring the various areas and listening to lacklustre performances with poor sound, I was getting pissed off, mostly due to jealousy that I wasn't playing huge open-air gigs yet.

Being a musician makes me overly critical of people getting paid big money to perform, and I hate paying to see stuff I am good enough to be paid to do. I ended up, by and large, ignoring the bands in favour of wandering, meeting and talking to complete strangers, scoring some "questionable quality but did the job" blow, and whatever else I could find to occupy my time that didn't involve being bored shitless by bands I didn't care for.

Best Point: One of my friends bringing a shedload of instant noodles as camping rations, yet neglecting to bring water or fire. OR a fucking fork. What a twat... I have never laughed so hard at another person's misfortune or stupidity. Thankfully his noodles were accepted by other campers in exchange for more suitable food. Being able to barter some of my surplus supplies for beer and weed also rocked.

Worst Point: The music. Festivals just aren't for me, because I'm too difficult to please and don't care in the least about watching others perform. The only way I'd go again is if I was playing.
(keyboardman, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 19:30, 4 replies)

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)

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)

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)

Festivals rock...
My love for live music is only passed by my love of snowboarding but I have had the privilege to witness some truly awesome things at festivals which will stay with me forever. These include:

The girl I lost my virginity too’s exceptionally metal goth mates, the first time I had ever left Cornwall at 17 – Reading 1995

Blind Melon live before singer died – Reading 1995

Getting into Glasto free with no tent, didn’t rain once and they brought in heightened security the year after – Glastonbury 1999

A girl petting a sniffer dog as if it was a pet before she realised all her drugs and festival were gone – IOW 2008

Daphne and Celeste, the most ill advised gig ever – Reading 2003

Pissing on my girlfriend, getting punched in the face – Reading 2003

Pete Docherty turning up for a gig and being really shit – Get Loaded in the Park 2006

Rev Al Green waking my up one Sunday morning crooning at me – Glasto 1999

Newton Faulkner and Sponge Bob Square Pants - Rip Curl Boardmasters 2007

And the coup de gras Foo Fighters – Reading 1995 - I was pulled out from the pit. Awesome. Even Sir David of Grohl still talks about that gig today.

Loads more to mention, gigs are always awesome… even Vanilla Ice at the Cornwall Coliseum, my first ever live gig!
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 17:20, 5 replies)

Beer and music
Generally speaking I don't do multi day music festivals, simply because I'm not too fussed by that much music and prefer the more personal smaller day events, or less music oriented stuff.

At a reasonably sized event like Manchester Pride? Over by the indie stage, sitting on the grass drinking beer instead of shoulder to shoulder by the main stage. I've had fun at the main stage, but a more consistently good time elsewhere.

Eurocultured or Nantwich Jazz and Blues festival this year? Main stages were missing something, but small events were stunning (apart from in one shit trendy bar, where people were too concerned about looking cool and drinking beer).

I was having a good time in Nantwich, but hadn't found Blues Nirvana yet. I ducked into the Black Lion which advertised itself as 'Cheshire's No 1 CAMRA pub'. I was dubious it'd be any good due to the fact it was packed and a bit small. Then they started up - it might have been small, but the enclosed space actually enhanced the sound. I ordered a pint of something suitably real ale-ish, and over the course of the next hour and a half slipped into a misanthropic lyrics and jaunty music reverie. They were accomplished musicians, and even spent their break further tweaking their mixing desk.

Dancing was a bit tricky, but it was possible to have a bit of a chat at times, the beer was way better than anything at a major festival and there wasn't a drop of mud in sight. joy :)

Then there were the times at other little events with lots of house parties, some really wide ranging conversation, and having to almost physically throw out an over amorous irish woman at 3am trying to get off with an uninterested friend of mine..
(syllopsium, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 17:17, Reply)

NEED I SAY MORE:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzdaXAJKsro

BUSTED!
(NOPE, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 17:10, Reply)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

Of course, you could go to a civilised festival.
I went on tour with a uni jazz band to the Jazz festival in Vienne.

Four weeks of festival live on French TV. Not only did some of my fellow band members manage to amble over the stage and end up back stage with Dee Dee Bridgewater, half the Lincoln Centre Jazz Orchestra came and listened to a little bit of our crappy afternoon gig on a side stage.

No dramas, no mud, no heavy security, no robbery. Just excellent music, in a huge Roman amphitheatre, with views down to the Med. And quite a lot of people smoking suspicious cigarettes without the police bothering to intervene.

You young people and your music, tsk.
( prince-igor si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 15:40, 12 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)

Festival clothes stalls
I was pretty drunk at ashton Court festival, many years ago when it still existed, so i thought I'd have a look at some of the stalls, maybe pick up a nice pair of jeans.

The clothes are arranged by style, so all the leather coats are on one rack, stright-legged jeans on another, flared on another. Everything is arranged in order of size.

I'm looking at the flared jeans, and a couple of feet to my left is a 13ish year old girl with her mum. Yes, I, as a 24 year old man was was apparently planning to dress in the style of a scaled up teenager. I am the king of all fashionables.

The kid picks out a pair of jeans and shows them to her ma. Her mum says "aren't they a bit big, they'll keep dragging on the floor". The child puts on her best teeth-clenched 'you are *so* embarrasing' voice and says "mmmmmmmmmmmmum, that's the *whole* *point*". The mother looks over at me and gives me a "kids eh" look.

I slur in her direction "ashly, she's kindov righut"

I don't know if I helped or hindered.
(teebie jeebie, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 14:48, 3 replies)

We got trollied, as such
Went to Bestival 2007 and had the genious idea of taking a little trolley thing so we could wheel our stuff about and thus take more booze and tings.

The Bestival site has a giant-normous hill as you go in, which you descend to the main arena and camp sites. The trolley did not enjoy this hill and the wheels promptly came off, creating a bob-sleigh type thing only there was no snow.

Had the best festival weekend of my life (I may tell some more stories if I get the chance/ can remember them) and then came time to pack up and leave...

If the trolley didn't like going down the hill, it absolutely despised going back up it again. Cue me and my mate taking it in turns to push the bloody thing a few yards, then collapse in hungover, heat stokey anguish. After about 2 house of pushing we made the summit amid a smattering of applause.

We couldn't help but jump up and down ala Rocky before collapsing for another hour or so to get our strength back.



Then it was just a small matter of getting the thing back from the Isle of White to Oxford on the train...
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 14:32, Reply)

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)

Stage Fright
Imagine leaving Dowload 05 in a slow moving convoy directed through some random farmers feild.
Imagine being so desprate for a piss that you jump out of your Astra and head 20 yards into the waist high plants for a quick piss.
Imagine a steadily ever gorwing chorus of "Stage Fright...STAGE FRIGHT!" from the 40 or so slow moving veichles all full of hungover Metallers watching you.
Imagine the road suddenly clear and you having to run back to your mates in the Astra with your silly baggy green trousers still round your knees, who of course drive off.
Whoever you were cheers fella, you were more entertaining than SOAD.
(Gru being trolled since 1998, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 12:45, 1 reply)

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)

'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)

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 Second Time I Didn't See the Pistols
Having failed to see the Sex Pistols once, the opportunity arose to see them play the Phoenix festival a few weeks later. As on the previous occasion, I was working as a steward and - joy! - my shifts were timed perfectly. I wouldn't actually be on duty when the Pistols were playing.

On the first night, I was put on fire tower duty. This meant I was stuck on top of a wobbly scaffolding structure in a field, watching over the campsite to make sure that noone lit a bonfire. From about half a mile away, I could just make out the top of the main stage and the screens that were relaying Bowie and Björk.

I'd clearly demonstrated that I was good at fire towers, because the following day I was given the same role in a different field. On this occasion, though, it was during the day. I thought that this would be good: I'd do my stint, and then use my nearly-all-areas pass to go and see some great bands in the evening.

It didn't work out that way. There's no shade on a fire tower, and Phoenix '96 was very hot and very sunny. One of the Glaswegian security dudes and I did a couple of desultory laps of the campsite to make sure that there was nothing shifty going on - with the odd exception, there was little of interest - but eventually gave up with that and sat atop the tower to enjoy the sun.

Did I mention we had no water? No? Well, we had no water.

By early in the afternoon, I was beginning to suffer. "You know what," I said to the security bloke, "I think I'm going to have to knock off. I don't feel so well."
He looked at me for a moment, and told me that I didn't look so well either.

From that point, I can't remember much - except waking up a couple of hours later in the first aid tent with sunstroke. I was one among many, and they were running a reasonably effective triage system. Fortunately, I'd been wearing a t-shirt, so wasn't burned - and this meant that, as soon as I woke up and it was apparent that all I really needed was liquid and sleep, I was encouraged to fuck off.

I crawled back to my tent wherein I shivered and fitfully slept for the rest of the festival. The Pistols were due to play the Sunday evening. I'd decided I'd had enough long before that, though, and went home.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 8 Jun 2009, 11:54, 1 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)

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)