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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)
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(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 16:32, 11 replies)
Spacehopper man
I went to Glasonbury dressed as a spacehopper. Not surprisingly, many people thought it would be a great idea to jump on me. I'd kind of expected that.

But not one single, solitary one of them was female. Arsebiscuits.
(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 13:59, 4 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)

(, Mon 29 Jun 2015, 4:43, 1 reply)
I remember when this was all fields

(, Sun 28 Jun 2015, 23:18, 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)
Someone tried to sell me drugs. Thank fuck I had a samurai sword in my tent.

(, Sun 28 Jun 2015, 18:22, Reply)
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)
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)
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)
I've only ever been to Glastonbury once, 6 years ago.
Spent over a grand all in for me and the wife. We could have had a weekend in Barcelona or something for that money.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 19:29, 3 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)
Phoenix 1994, my first festival
You can see me crowdsurfing to Carter USM between 1:50 and 2:00

(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 17:33, 2 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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
Phoenix '97 - my first festival.
Purchased a souvenir t-shirt on the first day and wore it for the duration, like a tourist.
Security took it upon themselves to aggressively frisk me at every opportunity, despite me not confirming to either of the drug dealer stereotypes that were in evidence (angry black men in a puffa jackets, cheerful spacecakes proferring weed & beads).
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 12:22, Reply)
Glastonbury, '99 (probably),
and some largered up tosser runs up behind me, yanks down my sarong and runs off laughing. The disappointment on his face when he realised my sarong had been securely tied and thus hadn't budged, was delightful.
Good thing, too, as I was commando, underneath.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 12:18, 4 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)
Piss steam
A couple of years before my Glastonbury experience, myself and 3 mates were at the Phoenix Festival.

We were totally shit-faced staggering around the campsite looking for our patch of turf when we decided we all needed a piss.

There was a lovely little camping set up in front of us. Nice couple of tents side by side with the glowing remains of what was a large camp fire in front.

We all took a lengthy 'racehorse' piss over the remains of the fire. Gallons of our foul urine hit the white hot coals, turned to steam and got taken by the breeze - of which the slightly opened tents were directly downstream.

We scarpered to the sound of the moans of the poor campers subjected to being woken up by breathing in our smelly piss steam.
(, Fri 26 Jun 2015, 11:20, 2 replies)
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)

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