.
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)

Clear views at Sex Pistols 1996...
It was the summer of 1996 and my friends and I had scored tickets to the Sex Pistols reunion tour. I was hella excited as it was to be my first gig, and indeed festival ever...

We arrived and spent the day drinking piss poor warm beer out of those big plastic cups, watching the warm up acts, and fending off an old wierdo who seemed interested in making friends with a group of 5 15 yr old boys, then trying to fight us all when we told him to get bent and go molest someone else.

But I digress.

Cut forward to the main event, 50,000 plus people surge forward to watch the show, and the major flaw in our cunning plan became apparent; namely that being 15, we had neither the height to view the show, nor the requistite body mass to barge to the front. And, as seems to always happen to me, we end up stood behind the tallest godamned people at the entire event. Sighing, and accepting our fate, we try to peer around whilst rockin out to the aged pensioners on stage. Suddenly, taller and hairier of the bikers spots us and motions 'up' to us. Assuming he meant crowd sufing we both eagerly agree, only to find ourselves hoisted up on to the towering chaps' shoulders!

To this day Im not sure if they just enjoyed the feeling of pubescent thighs around their necks, or if they were just cool guys, but we both got to watch the whole show from about 8feet in the air!

Awesome.
(mobi I completed the Internet on 'hard'. Twice., Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:00, 3 replies)

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)

Last year
Me mate was working for (and still does) a posh tent company that does posh tents.
They'd had one of their big bastard teepee things (actually 3 of them) ordered by VFestival peeps and needed 2 workers to supervise the thing throughout the event.
"Wanna come V?" quoth the Donnyland.
"Aye" says I.
So off we trot on the motormerways to V, where the teepees had already been erected (snigger).

And so I had 3 days of sitting, free food on occasion and a bit of beer at times. Yay! I saw Duffy skittering about on the stage with a very short skirt in the blustery wind. I seen that Verve and Amy Winehorse.

We, of course, had a 'Backstage' pass to the crappy 'VIP' area with inflatable cushions and shiz, mainly so we could check the tent to make sure it wasn't going all collapsey.
It wasn't that exclusive but I saw... That twat off skins who I don't like the face of (not that he can't be spotted around Bristol that often) and that Rugby player I can't remember the name of - oh I just have: Danny Cipiranni... and that bird off of Gavin and Stacey that I didn't recognise because I've never seen it, and...
PDiddy! He's well short, and was getting some free grilled chicken.
I do not lie. It was free, too.

And I ripped one of my prized tshirts on a security fence, and then got moved on by some silly tart with a clipboard as they were about to open the area to annoying little scallies who were going to come in and make the place look funky, and didn't want to see sweaty, ripped tshirt workers hanging around.

Shit story, but meh - I went to a festival for free. Not bad, considering I'm not really bothered about music anyway.
(tweebianmonkey Should be known as Widget, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:55, 1 reply)

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)

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)

A story about a sober and wonderfull moment
I have a different story that does not involved drugs and alcohol

Sziget 2007,

Day 1, the main attraction on the main stage was Manu Chao who was supposed to end the night.
After a night on train, a manage to get to and into the island, find a place for my tend near a bunch of friends from my town and try to get an hour of sleep before the fun begin.
Meanwhile on the main stage the bands who where suppose to play later made their sound check.

I was wake up around noon by some familiar tunes. I exit the tend immediately and walk towards the main stage. There, as I was expected from the sound, was the band of manu chao making their sound check. The gay was on the stage a bit behind.
So there where around 200 people watching and getting more and more excited as they heard pieces of the familiar songs.
Then the guy grab a guitar and started also playing. It was amazing and that because you can see that they really like to play and really wanted to play for that small audience. They singed about four or five songs and it was the best moment in the hole festival for me. They really enjoy it and the audience was delirious.
That became clear later and due to the fact that in the evening during the big concert there was an electric power failure and the show was not that good.
So, sober, totally unexpected and one of the best moments :)

Sziget rules :)

PS: the drugs and the alcohol came later that day and week
(rhatanu, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:36, 1 reply)

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)

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)

Download 2009
I'm going this year with a group of people who can consume beer like its water and have a good 10+ years of drinking experience ahead of me.

I would try and get some sympathy but I know its going to be FUCKING MENTAL!
(paddysawyers music whore, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:09, 1 reply)

I didn't see the Pistols
It was 1996, and the Sex Pistols announed their Filthy Lucre reunion tour. They were to play Finsbury Park; also on the bill were Iggy Pop, Stiff Little Fingers, the Wildhearts and, er, 3 Colours Red. Having missed all their gigs first time around (in 1976 I was mainly in the womb), I thought it'd be good to go.

Better yet, I was a member of Labour Students, which supplied stewards for festivals - so not only was this a chance to go for free, but also a chance to get paid a tenner for it. Kickass!

My friend B and I turned up and were directed to our jobs. We were to man a delay tower. Delay towers are those big speakers half-way up the field, and we were supposed to look after the one on the right with the help of a couple of fucking enormous professional security men from Glasgow. The noise was astonishing. Not only did the ground shake: it felt as though it would shatter at any moment. My ears didn't stop ringing until 2003.

Anyway: the reason why these towers need looking after is that people try to climb them, and we were supposed to prevent that.

There's not actually a lot you can do to prevent that if they manage to get over the barrier, so prising people off the barrier became the primary focus. Which is why I spent almost a whole day fighting off ageing punks in the name of protecting the very equipment that was making my ears feel somewhat like Nagasaki.

Oh, yes: I had my back to the stage as well. So I barely saw anything.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 12:08, Reply)

Well, if anyone I know reads B3TA this'll give the game away...
Reading Festival Back in 2002 approx...

I won't bother with the fluffy detail, straight to the point.

Got wrecked throughout day.

Made bonfire.

Fell asleep with feet in bonfire, melted soles on trainers.

Went to tent to get some well needed sleep after generally embarrassing myself, got undressed, put my valuables in a nice little pile under my pillow.

Get woken up by strangers trying to enter my tent at sometime in the early morning - "GETTHAFUCKOUT!" I scream at them. They explain that in fact this is their tent, and that I am a naked drunken buffoon, and ask politely if I could get out their sleeping bag, put my clothes on and fuck off asap. A bit embarassing...

After an hour of wandering around half naked, find my tent and get to sleep. Nice.

Wake up under the rays of the sun at midday, stagger from tent needing fresh air, vaguely remember what happened - find friends - get told off for being a lightweight embarassment. Realise I don't have my wallet, phone, etc etc....Fucksticks.

(Nice people actually brought back my belongings when they woke in the afternoon).

These days I just go to Sziget and other reasonably priced euro festivals with my mrs and get pleasantly drunk. I prefer it this way.
(Pat_Gash, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:58, 3 replies)

T In the Park 2008
Some people get so worked up over so many average bands these days. I like to get worked up about drinking and having a good time.

So on the Friday night contemporary pop artists such as The Wombats, K.T. Tunstall and Scouting for Girls were set to strut their stuff and "wow" the crowd. Really the stuff to get you pumped up I'm sure you'll agree. The night was to culminate in a show by Rock and Roll Legends (if some of my friends are to be believed), erm what are they called "Stereophobes" and "The Verge".

I hadn't a clue who they were, except one band were from Wales and one had a video of a man walking through the street barging into people acting all smart and cool and "I'm so above day to day life. Get out of my way peon!".

Being the Friday night, the entire day had been spent boozing, travelling and boozing. It was strange that when I finally planted my drunk-as-a-skunk arse down on the grass by the expertly erected tent, that I was not tired. Party mood had grabbed me by the bollocks. I should point out that the night before I purchased some kind of drinks bag, that athletes use. It's like a back-pack that holds 2 litres, so I filled it up with 2 bottles of Vod, strapped it under my hoody, arranged the straw thingy majigger to be within the reach of my lips at all times and marched towards the band area, friends in tow.

Having 2 litres of Vodka strapped to your back certainly beats buying the £4 a pint flat/warm tennants and cider you get within the depths of T in the Park.

Back to the main story - it was all shite bands thus far, so after getting a sailor style "Mum" tattoo + love heart, I plonked myself down in a so-called oxygen tent. The guy sticks tubes in your nose and it supposedly does nice things to yer. It was a fucking waste of a fiver. However, the man behind the "bar" asked me if I wanted poppers? Why did he select me? Perhaps God demanded it, but the popper shortage was over (they could not be purchased anywhere on-site). But he SELECTED ME!

And so all the ingredients to the Friday night from hell were in place.

Following the usual partying and skullduggery associated with thousands of people in one field partying, apparently the Stereophones were taking to the stage. Meanwhile me and my good friend 'A' were stumbling around the less-dense areas of the crowd in broad daylight, snuffing poppers (getting it in your eye hurts), sooking raw Vodka and generally being a nuisance.

As "The Verbs" took to the stage, me and 'A' were at the sideshows. We went around on the Ghost train 8 times, with some strange South African fellow - at a cost of £5 a pop each. Bittersweet Symphony my arse.

Looking at the TV highlights - I have to say that the Ghost Train was better.
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:54, Reply)

Ahhhh, Download
Download 06, The really, really hot one
Apart from the already mentioned riots (slept through them too), and the abject twattish-ness of Axl Rose and his guitarist who spanged an innocent camera man in the head with his instrument, Download 06 passed without mention, except for Spiderman and Superman. Yep, those two loveable comic superheroes made an appearance.
On our arrival they were already running around in the sun mildly amusing/frightening the young pretty emo girls. On the second night we were sitting around our burgeoning fire drinking beer and talking crap, when a slightly drunken and sheepish voice asked us where camp site B was. We all turned around to gesture the general direction, only to find we were directing his Spideyness. Only Spidey was a bit worse for wear, he was lacking one boot & one glove and sporting some nice cuts and bruises. We sent him on his way and bellowed "Everyone get's a free one", seemed lost on him.
And from one of the previous posts, I too spotted the angry rock dwarf, amazing how he could be so noticeable amongst thousands of people.

Download 07, The Evanescence before Maiden one
Amidst some of the frankly shite metal on offer, there was one real standout moment, the bottle fight that occurred, it was so epic that the act trying to perform eludes me even now.
We've all seen festival bottle fights, all been hit by bottles filled with something that might be piss and all inadvertently cobbed a bottle into the melee and instead hit an innocent girl in the face (ahem). This year was different, there seemed to be sides, a division of the crowd, hell, there was even a no mans land. There were pitched battles, quiet periods, more battles, injured people being dragged back to their allies.
It lasted what seemed like hours, and the culminating point was a massive surge of forces up a hill, along with their own make shift flag. The raising on Iwo Jima it wasn't, but it did have a certain curious air of victory about it.

All of the other stuff is par for the course in any festival, expensive & dodgy food, too much drinking, progressively worsening toilet facilities and general cuntishness from people.
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:48, 2 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)

Filth
Unfortunately I went to V Festival in about 2005. Having been to many festivals before, I was a bit sceptical of the watered down, middle class boring stories I had heard of V. Anyway. I drove into the carpark with two mates, having disco biscuits and a quarter of weed in my back pack. As I looked ahead there was a copper stood in the road waving me into this big tent area. Strange I thought. Turns out they had sniffer dogs and were looking for drugs. Fuck I thought. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Anyway. He asked me if I had any drugs on me and I told him, yes and pulled them out of my bag. Said filth then asked me what the pills were, to which I replied, I assume they are ecstasy, but I havent had a chance to try them yet. He then asked if I was intending to sell them, or were they for personal use....Hmmm....tricky question. So...one set of finger prints later and one DNA swab and I have a caution and he takes all my drugs. He then asked me if I'd raped anyone and hadnt been caught as they now had my DNA????
Great start to a festival.
Inside the arena they have large screen to which people could text in messages and get them displayed between bands. Twice I texted 'Thanks Branson for the Police on the way in, you ginger bearded cunt'. And they didnt display it. I also texted 'Cheer if you'd rather be in Glasonbury' and they didnt put that up either.
Turns out I was right, festival was utter shite, souless, boring and very middle class. No one getting proper messy and fuck all to do after about 11.30. And no fires. And no fun.
( DumbMonkey The penis mightier than the sword, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:38, Reply)

Hung for another crime
Managed to blag some backstage passes for Reading (I think) back in the late 90s. The artists weren't so fantastic, but did include Julian Cope, Garbage, My Life Story, Bennet, and loads of other types you young people have never heard of. Not having a tent I borrowed one off my mate Vic, who incidentally had sorted the free passes from his part time job with Suede. I met up with Vic after work one night along with most of my colleagues to get the tent. We were joined by my missus - not a festival goer - on this occasion, which was a rare thing in itself. Now it didn't take much brainpower to work out why she had come along. Another work chum was going to come along and share the tent, and the missus wanted to check out the competition. Jayne - the work chum - was a good mate, but there was none of that going on, but she does have the most fantastic breasts. Obviously the wife decided I was planning to shag Jayne at the festival, and whilst I would not have said no, it wasn't on the agenda. I was planning on seeing a few bands, taking some class As, and having a good time.
So the next day me and Jayne head off for the festival and get down to some serious drinking backstage. All goes well, we're having the aforementioned laugh, we see some good bands, we take some drugs. To escape the rain we stumble into a tent and discover Bennet, who play a blinding set, then before we know it we're transfixed by Courtney Pine playing the longest sax note ever. It's fantastic, I'm stoned, we need a drink, we go back to the bar.
At the bar Jayne recognises a girl (one of our customers) who we've got friendly with. I hadn't expected to see Alison at the festival, so this was a bonus, as I had been getting very friendly with her recently. (Friendly as in 'breaking marriage vows' friendly.) Not that I needed encouraging, but Jayne is busy setting us up for an evening of naughty behaviour, so I soon found myself hanging out with Alison. Then her brother turns up. Now the brother has decided that I am the spawn of the devil (not innacurately perhaps, I am involveds with his sister and married to someone else after all!) This makes things a bit awkward, especially when Jayne decides to leave the way clear by making herself scarce, taking an unscheduled trip back to London and leaving me with my mistress and her psycho brother. What else can we do but get very drunk...
Eventually its time to retire, and I'm pleased to see that Alison has also blagged space backstage, so it looks like that tent of Vic's is going to stay empty after all. Unfortunately psycho brother isn't having any of it, and is running 'top cover' for his sister, making sure that Alison and I are kept well apart and never see the location of each others tents. I searched for her tent with no luck, she passed out from the alcohol, we never saw each other. (Again as it happens, but that's another story...) Ended up back in my own tent, freezing cold, very fed up, and unable to sleep due to the noise being made in the next tent by Dr Phibes and the House of Wax Equations. (Ironically one of my favourite bands of all time, but not right at that point.)
Next morning, still pissed off, I head into town for many burgers, then head for home a day early in disgust. Alison had already gone home, Jayne had already gone home, it had all gone wrong. Back in London the missus gave me a major earbashing for my imagined shagging of Jayne. I could hardly explain that I hadn't, but had planned to spend the night with Alison. I wanted sympathy, but got an earbashing.
And Julian Cope had a new band and was shite. Festivals are rubbish I thought, and never went to one again.
(Mr Steve is jobless and fancyfree!, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:34, 1 reply)

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)

Bloc weekend and being generally old
for some inexplicable reason, I've reached that point where the idea of camping in a muddy field with a load of pissed up teenagers shouting the word bollocks to each other has begun to lose its appeal. that's where festies like ATP and Bloc come in. Take over a Pontins or Butlins for the weekend, see loads of bands with cheap beer, decent soundsystem and big indoor arenas. lovely. So I jumped at the chance to go for free as a couple of mates were playing for the last two years. We must be getting old though because both festivals have followed the same pattern. Rock up at the venue on Friday to see lots of people already passed out in the car park, go to our chalet and drop off our stuff. Start drinking (this year we had free champagne in our place - classy!). Drink more. See about three bands. Throw up in a bin. Pass out. See more bandsa and drink more on Saturday. Watch Come Dine With Me on the TV instead of seeing Modeselektor. Wander out of Aphex Twin and Hecker because it's a bit of a racket.

At some point during this year's event each of us in our cabin had a nice relaxing bubblebath. By the time it came to the Sunday night closing set by Carl Craig, only two of us were left standing. The others had decided to get an early night. Bless.

Still, better than Luke Vibert's effort. he was in the chalet next door and as far as I can tell, only left once - to play his set.

Rock and Roll indeed.
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:30, 2 replies)

"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)

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)

Carcassonne this coming summer
My brother is going to the bastille day festival there, just to see status quo. Tragic? Possibly.
(Hagbard MacDougal, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 11:16, 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)

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)

Glasto '93
...was a very hot and sunny one and on the Sunday evening after the bands had finished there was a massive queue for the toilets (the blue portacabin ones). I've read stories on this QOTW about these already and if you've been in one at a festival it's not something that will ever leave you.

Anyways, I saw one guy go into these lovely blue tardis's of death, only for his mates to run up and push it over while he was in there. I never knew used tampons would look good as a hair accessory.

The sight of about 100 people pissing themselves whilst trying hard not to retch will stay with me for a very, very long time.
(MonkeyFunker, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 10:52, Reply)

A 8 day Italian reggae festival...
is where my girlfriend wanted to go this summer.

The fact that I'm not going is the highlight of the breakup.
(teebie jeebie, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 10:50, Reply)

Just me then?
It was supposed to be the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow in the comedy tent. Remember them? Vomit drinking freaks who lifted weights with their cocks and stuck all manner of pointy stuff into their skin. I'm sure many of you lot loved them, as did many others at the time. Not me. I fucking hated the whole thing; it made my skin crawl to watch it and I couldn't ever understand the appeal.

Anyway, it was supposed to be them "performing" in the comedy tent, and I allowed myself to be overwhelmed by peer pressure and reluctantly agreed to go along to watch this nonsense.

"Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond our control, The Jim Rose Circus Side Show will be unable to perform for you this afternoon" is a rough approximation of what the nervy fella on stage mumbled before legging it to a chorus of boos.

It was a bit rainy out and the disgruntled masses that had packed themselves into the small tent hung around to see what act might be brave enough to step into the blood stained shoes of the cancelled freak show.

The grumbling and agitated murmuring subsided at the first signs of movement on stage. The feeling of excitement was palpable and the throngs watched with rapt attention as various mics and instruments began to litter the stage. There was an expectation among the blood thirsty crowd that would never be realised, and so it was that the loudest chorus of boos and jeers I've ever witnessed met the eventual arrival on stage of the big eyed, slick 'haired' paper mache head of Frank Sidebottom.

The poor fucker. He'd barely bumbled his way through his opening gambit before the first burger bounced off his massive face. This wasn't a friendly crowd by any means, one must consider who they'd gathered to watch in the first place, but the presence of this second rate, gimmick ridden comedy songster seemed to unleash a feral quality in the crowd and his silly head soon bore the stains of never to be consumed fast food. A shoe and a fair bit of mud helped hasten his all too slow departure and the few remaining stragglers gave their only cheer of the set as he slunk away with his moon face hanging suicidally low.

I thought it best to keep it to myself that I'd actually enjoyed that far better than I ever would have done the likes of Mr. Lifto et al; this mob were looking for a scapegoat and I really wasn't willing to offer myself up for sacrifice.
( Moey, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 10:40, 1 reply)

Dubcamp
I haven't really been to any festivals, living in Scotchland isn't geographically blessed to attend the type of festival i would enjoy.

T-in the park can fuck off and die.

Until that is the prospect of Dubcamp arrived...it promised to be everything i imagined a good festival consisted of. A huge dub-reggae soundsystem in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere. There were lots of facilites as it was bona-fide campsite complete with iron age roundhouse, spring fed hot tub, suckling pig and about 150 people.

This was a few years ago now and there seemed to be a LOT of mdma crystals going round...very high quality i may add. So, the venue was arrived at, tent pitched and sound system wallowed in. The trees gave rise to some very interesting echo-ing, and the bass was overpowering yet still crisp. We lazed about enjoying the laid back vibe and smoked ourselves into a crystalline fug.

Darkness fell and so did the rain, not heavy but very very steady. I had come prepared so the elements weren't a problem. However, the intense darkness, was.

You forget just how dark it can get in the middle of a forest at night, unfamiliar surrounding, a hotch potch of similar tents, no reference points to speak of. I had a small mathmos light ball that lit up my stumbling path with very little vigour, but crucially it gave enough definition for me to find my tent, eventually.

As i gently made my way i passed a guy, standing completely still in amongst some tents, totally silent. i didn't see him until i was almost at him. He was completely muntered and had obviously no idea of where he was, where he was going or how to get there. I asked if he was ok but he just stared at me as if I was an apparition, bathed in a soft blue light. I got to me tent and got what i needed.

I headed back ad the guy was in the exact same position, unable to move, completely frozen with confusion. I know, because it took all of my concentration to navigate the searing darkness, several times i had to stop and restore my meagre bearings.

I passed him and the darkness swallowed him after about 6 feet, he has on his own, again. I had the feeling that he was simply gonna stand there until it got light enough for him to see where he was going, or until someone arrived, with a bright torch and led him to safety.

Overall it was an amazing set up in an amazing location, but the relentless dubstep eventually bored the tits off of me. A sound system of that calibre, in those surroundings deserved a more varied diet of styles.

i really would like to try out Bangface or the Bloc weekender, and of course Dour in Belgium. One day i will hopefully amass enough spare braincells to attend one of them.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 10:37, 6 replies)

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)