Nothing, I want nothing...
I posted in the biggest disappointment QOTW about Glastonbury, and how it fell far short of my expectations, but I neglected to mention the one highlight that has stuck in my memory long enough to overshadow the otherwise distinct let down that the festival proved to be. But I'll come back to that later; first, some background...

I'm the second of three brothers. We've always been close and have always shared very similar tastes in film, music, literature and etc... and when the eldest went to university his visits back to the family home would always be greeted with great excitement by the two of us he so callously left behind.

This is largely because his return would always be accompanied by a wealth of new music, films and books, as well as a variety of less salubrious substances that he would share liberally with his siblings. Through these visits I came to discover a world of mind altering substances and culture; broadening my horizons far beyond the limits of the small Lincolnshire town my mum had selected to be our home.

Among other things, this lead me to the discovery of a book written by an American journalist by the name of Hunter S Thompson. This book chronicled a seemingly make believe, drug addled adventure. One so outrageously extreme as to be utterly unbelievable, yet infinitely compelling to my young and impressionable mind. Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas quickly became my favourite book, and the copy I rushed out to buy was readily passed among my group of friends as we dreamt of trying to emulate the feats contained within.

But this QOTW is all about films, you might be thinking to yourself. Well, dear reader, so is this little tale...

We leap forward again to my visit to Glastonbury. I've now been to university myself and come out the other side with a mountain of debt and an affinity for particularly stinky weed (the latter leading directly to the former). I'd spent a soggy first Glastonbury day craming my face with whatever substances I could get my grubby little paws on, and as the sun slid from the sky to brighten the another part of the planet, your friendly story teller had been reduced to a stumbly, mumbly wreck.

Quite by accident my small group chanced upon an outdoor cinema screen, where we decided to rest our minds for a while in front of whichever crazy film they were showing to the gathered freaks & drop outs.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Johnny Depp swatting at bats while a distinctly overweight Samoan, with only just more than a passing likeness to Benicio Del Torro, wrestled with the steering wheel of the red shark, as they careered along the highway toward Las Vegas.

My twisted brain faltered momentarily as it struggled to take in the reality of what was happening, and it was only when the collected patrons of the hotel lobby began turning into giant lizards that I truly accepted this wasn't just a beautiful hallucination, but instead was Terry Gilliam's almost perfect interpretation of the book I'd devoured so many times.

Although my drug taking days are long behind me, it's still film that I enjoy watching, and many a lazy Sunday afternoon since that rainy summer evening has been accompanied by the sights of Dr Gonzo wrecking his brain with a shocking narcotic cocktail.
( Moey, Fri 18 Jul 2008, 10:22, Reply)