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This is a question Festivals II

It's that time of year again

I was at a free festival outside Worthing in the early 90s, expounds Richard mcbeef off the internet. A bloke went mental on the dancefloor and started hitting people. He was restrained, calmed down, but then did it again, a good three times more. Eventually he was pursued around the arena by an ever-growing number of people, like in Benny Hill. He was chased into a massive nettle patch and ended up tied to a chair.

Tell us your festival experiences.

(, Thu 25 Jun 2015, 9:45)
Pages: Popular, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Years ago...
...a mate and I got caught climbing the fence at Glastonbury.

They made us go back inside and watch the rest of Coldplay.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 10:41, 12 replies)
Go on then, you can have this one again.
Five years ago, the local rugby club decided to put on a three day music festival. £20 for the weekend, loads of local (and not so local) bands, and best of all, the rugby club is but a five minute walk from our house so no tedious pissing about with camping or transport. Sweet.

Having caught a couple of acts on the Friday, I decided to make a day of it on the Saturday. After toddling up to the local boozer to watch Newcastle beat Sunderland in a lunchtime kick off, I decided to wander down to the rugby club and savour the day's delights. Meeting up with the missus and some mates, I grabbed a beer from the beer tent, and stood in the marquee watching band after band do their thing, and generally having a good time.

At a break between sets, and as it was a particularly warm day, our group decamped outside to sit in the grass, have a smoke and another pint, and generally enjoy ourselves. Then came the call of nature...

Trotting across to the portaloos that were located to the edge of the site, I waited my turn in the queue, and, as one became vacant, headed into the blue, odorous cubicle to have a slash. Half way through the act, I heard loud voices and then, without warning, my piss TARDIS began to shake violently. Fuck.

"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS GOING ON?" I yelled, fully aware of just what was going on but feebly hoping that my aggressors would suddenly realise they were being a bunch of knobbers and stop. They didn't. "FUCKING STOP, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" Too late. They were in the throws of Jackass ecstasy, and I was becoming more shaken than an epileptic Parkinson's victim. After a few short, but brutal seconds in which my whole body was bounced off every wall of the cubicle (not to mention the flush-stick), the whole thing crashed to the ground and showered me with piss, shit and blue chemical. There was no way out; the thing had crashed door-down.

A few seconds later, I felt the whole structure being heaved upright again; unfortunately the mix of piss, shit and chemicals that had pooled in the bottom of the portaloo had no other option but to sluice themselves back over me again during the process. However, I could at least get myself out of my effluence jailhouse, and burst the door open to emerge, a feeling of relief and rage washing over me to replace the godawful mixture that had only second before bathed me with it's warm, blue glow.

Shaking with fury, and seeing a small group of very obviously concerned festival goers in front of me, I could only really articulate a few words, which were along the lines of "WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?", spreading my arms wide with indignation. "WHO THE FUCK ACTUALLY DOES THIS SORT OF THING? LOOK AT ME FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! I'M UTTERLY SOAKED" At this point I noticed that my skin had taken on a slightly blue tinge. Great. I look like an angry Smurf. Excellent, fantastic. So I decided to articulate my disgust by flamboyantly taking my outspread arms and drawing them in and down my whole body so as to emphasise my plight. For added effect, I angled my head downwards at the same as if to encourage my small audience to fully take in just how wet, blue and covered in shitty toilet roll I actually was.

It's very difficult to maintain any sort of credible sense of anger, venom and rage when you look down and suddenly realise that your cock is still hanging out...
(, Sat 27 Jun 2015, 15:01, 3 replies)
Still the best thing ever to happen at a festival.

I met the guy dressed as jesus last year. Unsurprisingly, he's Glaswegian. I caught him getting changed into his outfit behind the posh loos in VIP. He looked at me, smiled, put his finger to his lips and said "Ssshh..."

I asked him why, everytime I meet a catholic preacher, they're always half naked and telling me to keep quiet about it. I never got an answer.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 14:08, 8 replies)
1991. 16 year old me has an adventure and takes lots of drugs.
My first foray into the world of festivals was pretty special. I was 16 and in care, and I asked my social worker if I could go to the Reading festival with some mates. She refused point blank, funnily enough. I got pissed off and went to a pub in Paignton I knew would serve me, and while I was there bumped into some hobo guys I knew. One of them had an acid tab, and I ended up taking half of it with him, then joining them hitching to Camelford for the White Goddess Free Festival. All I had with me was the clothes I was wearing.

On the way there two of us bunked into Paignton Zoo through the gift shop, tried to explain apologetically to the elephant why it was in captivity, and climbed out over the wall to continue hitching. It ended up with five of us hitching together. One of the lifts was an old fashioned farmer and his young daughter, and I remember lying across everyone's laps in the back, as it was the only way we could fit in.

Our tent got nicked on the way, so I ended up crashing out in someone's bus. People were openly selling drugs - I remember the shout "hash for cash!" was a common one. I met a bloke who'd taken bad acid in the 60s and was still hallucinating. I saw a woman dancing manically while a police helicopter dropped off a crew right next to her. I don't think she noticed.

The guy whose bus I was in had a letter "E" from a pub sign and fucked with people's heads by wandering over to the rave bit, dropping it on the floor and saying "oh no! I dropped my E on the ground!" As people scrabbled round looking for a small white pill, he picked it up, said he'd found it and wandered off to the sound of heads imploding. More than a little dickish now I come to think of it, but funny at the time. Ah well at least he let me sleep in his bus.

The weekend actually lasted about two weeks. The police were patrolling around the outside but mostly left us alone. On the last day I was sat by a fire with the bus guy and a lady came up to us and gave us some acid - she had to get rid of it because the police were searching people as they left.

It was a nice ending, but I do wonder if there was something a bit weird about that particular acid - within the next 6 months, and totally independently of each other, all three of us had fairly intense spiritual experiences and got all Jesusy. I remember meeting the dealer many years later, when she was doing a church talk on the eeeevils of drugs. We ended up quite good mates for a while.

The people were amazing there. I had my 17th birthday at the festie, and I was mostly given drugs (man) but a nice waistcoat appeared from somewhere. I was very sad to leave, but didn't want to get arrested. I bummed a lift back with someone, and when I arrived back in Devon, I was in some trouble. They'd had the police looking for me in seven (seven!) counties, between Devon and Reading, but not Cornwall - ha!

I still love festivals, though I'm not so big on drugs galore these days. I found a massive stash of hallucinogenics in a baccy pouch at a festival last weekend, and I wasn't even tempted...

Edit - found a different write up of the same festival here
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 13:49, 6 replies)
My mate Jon gave me a ticket to Sonisphere last year...
He'd just broken up with his missus and didn't want her to have the tickets, so invited me along instead. Because he was newly single, in between sessions of drinking overpriced lager he was on the hunt for anything that looked remotely female and like she'd let him take her back to his tent for the best thirty seconds of her life.

Obviously it fell to me to be his wingman.

As with many music festivals there was a small corner of the arena devoted to rattly old death trap fairground rides. One of these rides in particular was a "sit in small chair, get swung around 50 feet up in the air" variety. Earlier in the day Jon had eyed it up warily and loudly proclaimed he'd "never go on that fucking thing". I couldn't really blame him.

Later in the day, though, when Jon had found a likely girl (complete with requisite friend that needed escorting) and was regaling her with tales of his days in the RAF, we happened to walk past the ride again. Being the great friend and wingman that I am I suggested we all had a go; Jon couldn't decline for fear of looking like a wimp in front of his new lady friend. He hated every moment, and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if a little bit of wee came out when the wind picked up at the top.

Unfortunately things didn't work out for Jon and his lady friend that night (something to do with her smuggled in gin). It was alright though, because after watching a few bands the next day Jon made friends with another nice young lady and her friend. They stuck around as we watched a few more bands, had a few drinks, watched the slightly odd World War I dogfight, and went for a wander around the festival ground.

"Hey, girls," I said, when we got to an appropriate bit of the arena. "Reckon we should all have a go on that ride?"
(, Thu 25 Jun 2015, 12:51, 6 replies)
I got a job working in the first Rock above the falls festival
It was badly organised, despite some larger bands like Blondie playing there. I was given a flouro vest but given no other instruction about what to do. So I smoked pot and sort of just hung around hoping to chat with some of the bands backstage. I was crossing the fields between tents and the stage when people started screaming. A brown snake, about 2m long, had been spotted right amongst the punters. people turned to me. Now I'm pretty live and let live when it comes to wildlife, but this was australia and the buggers are poisonous. so I wrenched a star picket out of the the ground with the intention of clubbing the slithering bastard to death. I went for a big overhead whack and missed it completely, it rose up and back coiling for a strike but fortunately my next blow connected and broke it's spine (it being mostly spine), and then the hippy druggy onlookers were treated to watching me stoving in its head to a bloody mess for good measure. I dropped its lifeless body in the bin. Took no joy from the whole incident.
TLDR cumquat whacks off snake in front of horrified onlookers
(, Tue 30 Jun 2015, 10:23, 5 replies)
Went to a sparsely-attended rave in Phoenix
Of the dozen or so people in attendance, there was a courtly-looking fellow, age about 70 - a bit out of place. So, I pointed towards the stage and asked: "What do you think of the music?" (There was some dubstep shite on the turntables) He thought for a second, and diplomatically replied: "It's like Sinatra."
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 18:46, 3 replies)
Glastonbury 1986
Convinced I had the power of invisibility I decided to go backstage to say hello to The Cure. I managed to get past the security to where the tour buses were parked but when The Frank Chickens smiled at me I became scared that they were going to put me in an internment camp and perform experimental surgery and hid for four hours behind a generator.
At sunrise I found my friends and set fire to the tent so as to send smoke messages to God.
And I got dumped.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 11:55, 3 replies)
My mate was woken up by noisy rutting from a nearby tent
He was about to shout some sarcastic encouragement when he recognised one of the voices as being his girlfriend.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 9:55, 6 replies)
Reposting. Because pearoasting is for cunts.
I may have mentioned before that I do occassional security work.
This is generally quite tedious, until summer arrives, at which point in time it becomes a series of weekends away at music festivals up and down the UK. At one of the larger UK festival a call comes over the radio from a fairly bemused response team.
The victim had a lobe extension, what this effectively is, is a ear piercing that has been stretched and a hoop inserted to give a clear opening. Sometimes these are a few millimetres at most, sometimes they're wide enough to fit a can of redbull through.
Someone completely unknown to the victim approached him and after a brief conversation, then said the following "You know what would make a cool picture? If I was to padlock you to that fencing through your ear!"
The victim agreed that it indeed would make a cool picture. The protagonist produced a padlock from his pocket, they approached the nearest fencing and he was duly locked to it through the lovingly stretched hole in his flesh.
The protagonist unfortunately didn't stick around to take a picture. He didn't even release the poor sod. Instead, he just fucked off and left him.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 8:50, 2 replies)
Nothing more boring than people moaning about how much better things used to be, but I went to Glastonbury at the weekend for the first time in over 15 years.
It is now the poshest gathering on Earth. Everyone is called Guy, tall and toned, dressed as Where's Wally, and calls everyone 'Chap'. On Saturday we counted how many black people we could see, and we made it to 14.
Walking to our campsite two security ran over to warn us that there was a small puddle that we should be careful to avoid in case we slipped.
And the last remaining drug dealer was arrested by the Stone Circle on Friday night. As he was led away, a woman sniffed "good riddance! This festival doesn't need to be spoiled by drugs". I beg to differ.
(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 16:54, 9 replies)
"You like marmalade, don't you?"
It's not a trick question, the answer is obviously 'yes', yet I hesitate because my (quite old, increasingly eccentric but still quite sharp) Dad is asking.

"Err... why?" seems the best reply.

"Oh, there's a marmalade festival on in the Lake District and I wondered if you fancy going."

"No, of course not" I reply tetchily.

Mr P the elder tuts loudly and wanders off in a huff.

A fucking marmalade festival. What a time to be alive!

Google 'Dalemain Marmalade' if you fancy going.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 16:55, 9 replies)
I was once offered drugs by a mangled Mancunian who was already handcuffed and sitting in the back of a police van
You've got to admire enterprising spirit like that. It's what made Britain Great.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 16:11, Reply)

(, Tue 30 Jun 2015, 12:19, 11 replies)
Glastonbury, either early this century or late last one
I'd been out in the theatre fields with my mum and as it was starting to get dark we were walking back to her campervan. We got to a signpost at the edge of a field and stopped while she got her map out of the little thing that goes round your neck and peered at it with her torch. I was mostly watching the theatre people pack away when I noticed that one of the theatre groups wasn't leaving. There were about twenty of them, all dressed like borgified mummies or mummified borgs with red LED eyes, moving with quirky, angular movements and - when they wanted to - surprising bursts of speed.

"Don't look now," I said, trying to keep as many of them in view as possible, "But I think we're being surrounded." My mum, a no-nonsense headteacher with a tone of voice that could reduce unruly teenagers to quiet compliant kids in an instant, looked up and said "Don't be silly, what do you mean we're... Oh."

By this time we were at the centre of a circle of these things, slowly but surely closing in on us. My mum grabbed my arm. "What are we going to do?"

"Don't worry," I said, shaking off her grip. "I'll handle this."

I stepped forwards to confront the closest borg and drew back my cloak.* He advanced menacingly, but was stopped in his tracks by a familiar crackle, fizz and hum as I drew my lightsaber and ignited it. I jabbed it towards the borg with a couple of quick thrusts and he recoiled from its green light, giving me an opening to round on a couple of other mummies trying to sneak around to my right. Reversing my grip on the hilt, I kept the lightsaber spinning in a web of death** in one hand and took my mum's hand in the other, holding the mummy-borgs at bay and leading her to safety.***

I've written before about how I'd once managed to Jedi Mind Trick Luke Skywalker into giving me a free round of drinks at a pub in Wolverhampton, but there at Glastonbury, having saved my mum from monsters - that was the day I knew that was no longer a learner, I was the master.

*A grey blanket that I'd got from the Joe Bananas stall for a few quid earlier that day
**Like Arnie does in Conan 2
***Which was probably the nearest coffee stall or something

(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 19:58, 42 replies)

(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 4:43, 1 reply)
I met will Young briefly at Glastonbury
he and I were the only people buying drinks at one of the bars, all the bar staff were talking to him and he was going to sign stuff for them but he politely pointed to me and let me buy pints before he did it. What a good egg.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 15:04, 46 replies)
pop-up tents.
At the end of a long festival, once all the public etc had been cleared and nothing was left other than mess, we took one of the many discarded pop-up tents, folded it up and slid it under a colleagues car. We tied the guy rope to the tow loop and went to sit back and relax. The driver turned up, got into his car and pulled forward. The tent instantly unfurled, but rather than getting out and being a bit annoyed, he just kept going.

It was about two miles from the site before a police officer stopped him to get him to address the situation.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 13:31, Reply)
Going to Rebellions festival
in August. yes, I know I'm a sad old aging punk, but fuck you.
It's indoors - no rain or any weather shit to worry about.
No tent, nice little b&b with shower/toilet/breakfast/etc.
No fucking hippies, no hooray bastarding Henries doing the rounds like it's fucking Glyndbourne, no-one saying "chillllll-ooout maaaan", just pityful aged tossers trying to re-live their long-forgotten youth, but having a fucking good laugh.
Just a shame it's in Blackpool, which is a fucking dump.
(, Thu 25 Jun 2015, 23:22, 13 replies)
Wank wank wanky wank wank wank wank wank wanky wank
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(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 16:32, 11 replies)
In each of the last 4 years,
I have ended up attending a Real Ale festival held in a Working Men's Club in Kingston.

It's the one time of the year that I can still feel young, thin and culturally relevant.
(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 10:51, Reply)
Glastonbury 1984
The last time i paid for a ticket, it cost a staggering £17.
I went with 4 friends who were setting up a cafe from the back of their van, back then you could get away with this, I was the only one with a ticket.
When we got to the gates I had to give my ticket to the driver and the rest of us were bundled in the back and covered with tarps, trestle tables, camping and cooking equipment.
They didn't bother to look in the back and in we went. I felt a bit aggrieved to be smuggled in when I'd actually paid.
Back then you could park and camp anywhere and we set up shop at the side of the pyramid field.
They did a roaring trade and I set up a jewellery stall which also did very well..
Massive drugs were consumed and a great time was had by all.
When we left everything was just thrown willy nilly into the back of the van including several large pans of congealed curries and we all piled in on top of it all.
Got stopped by the police just outside Glastonbury town, they opened the back of the van, took one look at the chaos inside and waved us on, much relief all round as we all had something we shouldn't have..
Happy days
The last time I got in for free was 1993 and it was crap
(, Sun 28 Jun 2015, 21:48, 4 replies)
Mummery at a V Festival
I was once part of a Mummers troupe called The Amazing Ayiwhabda and His Automatic Apes, who specialised in performing Shakespeare plays dressed as farmyard fowl, such as Hamlet the Goose, King Duck Lear, Macbeth the Hen, Othello the Turkey and Coriolanus the Lobster (not a farmyard fowl, I know, but there was a reason for this which I cannot now remember).

In 1999 we performed at the V Festival, in a tiny tent theatre in the furthest, muddiest corner of the field. At this point in his career The Amazing Ayiwhabda was in the advanced stages of alcoholism and was never sober, and suffered from almost continuous diarrhoea, so it was us, his Automatic Apes, that carried the show, which, that year, was Richard the Third the Goose. 'Now is the winter of our HONK! discontent. HISSS! Made glorious HONK! summer by this sun of HISSS! York.' It was dreadfully unfunny, painful stuff, boring even when smashed out of your skull on drugs. At the time, though, I thought it was important art - but then, I was smashed out of my skull on drugs.

I had another, more basic motive for remaining with the troupe - I was having a torrid affair with another of the Automatic Apes, a young woman with blue hair and only three fingers on her right hand, who went by the name of Hepzibah. She suffered from vast, insurmountable mental health issues, having been sexually abused when she was a little girl by her father, her mother, her brothers, her uncles - in fact, her entire family. Pretty normal for some parts of Dorset, but it messed up poor Hepzibah's head, and she ended up throwing herself off the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol shortly after she left the relatively safe 'family' of The Amazing Ayiwhabda and His Automatic Apes, where she was looked after well enough. My affair with her was stimulating if rather disturbing, as she would call me 'Daddy' or 'Uncle Sid' during the throes of our lust. Sometimes she would ingest vast quantities of magic mushrooms and strip naked and run around tearing out great wads of her blue hair, shrieking, 'I'm Horny Hepzibah! Do me up the bum, you cunts!' She was a great cook and could knock up a fantastic chickpea balti. I never found out how she lost the fingers, the secret died with her.

Richard the Third the Goose turned out to be disastrous for The Amazing Ayiwhabda and His Automatic Apes. Though we performed it well, as far as I can recall through the haze of mind-bending drugs, hardly anyone came to see us, and those that did were too drunk and/or stoned to appreciate our 'art.' Not that it was art, though as I said I did think so at the time. The Amazing Ayiwhabda was by now a recluse who spent all his time in a hole he had digged with his bare hands, in which he would crouch shitting, drinking, and shrieking. Sometimes he would gather up handfuls of his faeces and fling it out of his pit onto the faces of any unfortunates who happened to be passing by. Again, pretty normal for some parts of Dorset, and Devon, and indeed the whole South West of England, but not in the South East, where the V Festival took place, but I don't think The Amazing Ayiwhabda knew or cared about that.

One incident that particularly stands out in my memory involves bread rolls. I was then and am now very particular about my toilet habits, and could not bring myself to use the on-site festival facilities, let alone squat shitting in a pit like The Amazing Ayiwhabda. I would betake myself into the woods with my trusty bog roll, find somewhere nice and secluded, and there go about my business. One day, however, I ran out of bog roll, and, finding myself in urgent need of an evacuation, in my desperation I grabbed a packet of bread rolls from the food zone. I then used these in lieu of bog roll, and I have to say, the cheap white bread was more than an adequate substitute; very absorbent, though crumbs were a problem. The next day, I overheard one stoner hippie type saying to another stoner hippie type how he had found some bread rolls 'covered with peanut butter' in the woods, and eaten them, and they had tasted 'amazing, man'. The look on the poor chap's face when I collapsed in front of him in fits of hysterical laughter was quite a picture!

The highlight of the festival was during Act 2 of a particularly woeful performance of Richard the Third the Goose, when Paul Heaton out of The Beautiful South wandered into our tent, and watched us for a few minutes with a look of amused disgust on his face, and then wandered back out, bumping into Paul Weller, who was on his way in. 'Tory cunt,' sneered Heaton, upon which Weller kicked him in the bollocks. Weller then stood watching us for a few minutes, smoking a fag, with a look of dim and angry incomprehension on his face, then chucked his fag on the floor and stomped off. The lit cigarette ignited the dry grass inside the tent - but luckily I was able to stamp the conflagration out before it spread. Perhaps it would have been better if I'd left it, as then I would have... da da daaaa! Died in a fire!*



*Not really, as I am a Time Lord, and would have regenerated, etc.
(, Sun 28 Jun 2015, 12:23, 12 replies)
I've only ever been to one 'mainstream' festival
and that was Reading in 1989. New order were appallingly shit, the Pogues were, well, the Pogues, and the best bit of the Mission's set was when Clint Mansell came on stage to join them in a rendition of Anarchy in the UK, before Wayne Hussey forgot some words to Shelter from the Storm and then decided to launch straight into 1969.

The absolute standout, though, was the Butthole Surfer's slot, in which they proceeded to just go mental. This was them, although the quality is a bit ropey.


It was also the year that my mate Ant decided it would be a good idea to pitch his tent in a hollow in the ground, before going off to the main field and enjoy himself. Around that time, the heavens opened and by the time he returned to his pitch, the hollow had become a giant, dirty puddle and the contents of his tent were utterly fucked. Poor bastard.

He's at Glastonbury this weekend. I hope a lesson has been learned.
(, Sat 27 Jun 2015, 14:42, 2 replies)
Festivals are interesting places.
A few years ago, on a campsite at a dance music festival, one of the punters decided that they'd had enough of a nearby group staying up until 6am, barbecuing their dinner, drinking and talking at reasonable levels. They agreed that the best course of action would be to move their tent, but rather than packing up and relocating without much fuss, they decided it'd be preferable to shit in their barbecue. The group returned at about 2am, drunkenly threw the charcoal on, lit it and unintentionally left the whole site smelling of burnt shit.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 13:15, Reply)
i saw a guy shit in a cup in the crowd at glastonbury
haha, poo
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 13:10, 1 reply)
Glastonbury '95
I was on the dole in Leeds with no money and only 3 cans of baked beans left - but some friends were driving down to the Festival in their hippy van to bunk over the fence so I thought 'Fuck It - might as well be skint and hungry at Glastonbury'. It was the worst weekend of my life.

My 3 cans of beans became 2 as some nob head nicked one off me as I was eating it.

Having no tent and nowhere to sleep was a bad idea. This was made worse by the fact that when I did find a 'quiet' spot and try to kip next to some bins, I was woken up by a stranger shouting with glee after finding a carrier bag filled with drugs next to my head.

I could have done with those. Starving, sleep deprived and sober is a shit way to enjoy a festival.

In the days before mobiles it was very easy to get lost. I spent the 3 days wandering about in a hungry knackered stupor with no idea where my handful of friends were.

Oasis headlined. They were fucking shit. I actually walked off - preferring my desperate hungry solitude to their dreadful performance.

I did see some lovely naked breasts though when I was sat at the Tor :)

Hitch hiking home on the Monday morning was the best bit. A complete stranger gave me 10 fags. I got a lift to Stone Henge after 2 seconds of putting my thumb out and I spent 2 days in the sunshine meandering back to Leeds. I had to beg for 20 pence outside a remote petrol station to buy a Mars Bar though.

TL;DR - I've never been back.
(, Thu 25 Jun 2015, 13:43, 30 replies)
The last time I went to a festival,
it took forever to get there, owing to the marquee reception beforehand dragging on interminably. There were no spots for our folding chairs on the lawn at the right distance from the string orchestra, the Pimm's had started to verge on the warm and it was even threatening to drizzle.

Fortunately for all concerned, Henry rolled up with some organic strawberries from his uncle's farm and a chilled bottle of champagne. We partied like mad things, I can tell you. There was more than a shade of the metallic to it.
(, Thu 25 Jun 2015, 12:47, Reply)

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