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)

Sounds like you're better off
without 'em.

Some people drag you down with their banal existences, others lift you up. From what I've read, you and Sweary are firmly in the latter camp :-)
( chart cat has an itch, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 9:12, closed)

Aw, ta.
Nah, we got to the point where we really couldn't be arsed anymore. When we did manage to mention our wedding their immediate reaction was "Will 'X' be there?"

"Yes".

"Well we're not going then. Not after what 'X' did to Brad".

'X', basically, gave Brad a cash in hand job for a grand a month labouring, then Brad walked off in a huff after an arguement with a colleague and didn't have the good grace to tell 'X' he wasn't coming back. All 'X' did was ring him and tell him he could have at least have the fucking decency to let him know.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 9 Jun 2009, 20:41, closed)

Now that's a great post
cheers.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 10:42, closed)

Cresswell?
Guffaw. And I'm pleased I wasn't drinking.
Now if it had been Chopwell.......
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Tue 9 Jun 2009, 11:10, closed)

FESTIVLS IS A LERD O SHITE HINNY!
SHITE! AH'M TELLIN' YE!
A LERD O' PEEPL STANDIN' RUND IN A FEELD WAVIN' THA ARMS IN THE AIR.
LERD O' FUCKIN' SHITE MAN!
BORIN' HINNY!

Dear cockshitting Christ, I don't miss their insular company at all. Brad's idea of being a good host was to let the guests choose what to watch them watching on the telly. Music/conversation were never an option. And he and his missus were joined at the hip with velcro.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Tue 9 Jun 2009, 14:02, closed)