Glaston-Wary?
What a shitty time poor Farah Fawcett had yesterday! To be interrupted in your induction into Heaven’s heavenly regiments by bawls of…
“Holy Jesus, is that Michael fucking Jackson?”
“O.M.GEEEE I think it is! Out of the way, hairy lady!”
… must rather suck a bunch. But that’s the wonderful world of music for you – it’s a lot more catchy than memorising reams of dialogue from The Cannonball Run.
And music is perilously tied into summer, isn’t it? I mean, now that the sun has cast a tolerable squintiness over our fair and freckled land, sure what’s upon us but the perils of that moderately mind-bending summer squash we call a “Music Festival”!
A mess of hits for masochists it very well may be, but that’s no excuse for coming home with the underpants of twelve strangers woven into your hair extensions, and an artist’s interpretation of Nina Simone’s minge tattooed on your left arse cheek. No. This is the age of information – would you Adam and Eve it? - and forearmed is foreskinned, or whatever, and … well, I’ve trudged the mud. I’ve smoked through the folk. I’ve been mugged by Pete Doherty round the back of the First Aid tent. I feel a smug sense of duty towards you lot just testing the waters of 48-hour hippiedom. Whether it’s Electric Sputnik or Oxygel you kids are heading to this year, hold my hand and I’ll get you through it. Sure what else would you be doing? There ain’t no Michael Jackson comeback tour this year, after all.
- Wrap up warmly. I’m serious. Many’s the time I’ve spotted an underage missypoo in hotpants and a boob tube ricocheting her toned thighs through the appreciative masses, only to meet her again at 4am, pregnant and wrapped in a foil blanket in the boot of someone’s car. The only proper attire for a summer music festival is some sort of duffel coat. This prevents hypothermia and all them pockets stops you having to hide your drugs up your arse. Plus you can sit on it for fornicative purposes (your duffel coat, not your arse).
- Bring your own drugs. Buying them once inside isn’t any kind of alternative – you don’t know whose arse they’ve been wedged into or what said arse generally gets up to of an evening. And going drug-free is an inadvisable and rocky road to traipse; you need something to deaden that appetite, because cow hoof burgers don’t taste too fabulous gushing back up past your tonsils (this still applies to people who don’t have tonsils). On top of that, there’s no fucking way you can listen to Lily Allen’s dribblings without first having had your senses mushed into an unholy porridge.
- Bring lots of toilet roll and sunscreen. This may seem like a no-brainer, but if you’ve paid attention to point two, you’ll have last seen your brain in a floral armchair in a B&B in Athy. You cannot have enough toilet roll; getting your drugs out of your arse is no picnic without it. Sunscreen must be liberally applied to shoulders, as manoeuvring yourself to get your unused drugs back up your arse will smart like Carol Vordermann if you don’t. Ain’t never been no award-winning contortionist with scalded shoulders.
- All that flailing about horsing dope up and down Shit Creek will make you more tired than the Michelin Man, but it’s difficult to catch some zzz’s when Beth Ditto’s lowing in the next field. Combat this by practising sleeping in the weeks before the event – in the office, at Mass, during sex, during sex at Mass. Work your way up to the point where you would happily snooze through a performance troupe jackhammering a homage to Michael Jackson’s ever-changing visage on the concrete floor of an underpass. Only then can you be confident that your yawnsome ways will save you from the lofty bullshit seeping from Lady Gaga and her tellytubby-lite fans.
- Wellies. Wellies are important – take it from a Galwegian whose runners fell apart at Homelands. Take it as gospel. And none of your Kate fucking Moss wellies neither; you want heavy-duty farmyard shite-stompers, not delicate, figure-hugging leg-condoms with kittens printed on. Fuck that. A good wide welly saves space up your bum; no security guard is going to sidle his fingers down a John-Deere stoker without rubber gloves and lashings of pure Domestos.
- And lastly, never underestimate the value of a flame-proof tent. Should you be staying on site, somewhere, somewhere in a field in Hampshire, you can be sure your fabric castle will be doused in alcohol and adapted as a beacon for someone, someone’s lost girlfriend at some stage during the festivities. Avoid this by arriving the week beforehand and constructing your temporary dwelling out of wattle and daub, blocks of ice, or Nicole Kidman’s reputation. This should ensure that an un-barbequed time will be had by all who sail in you.
I trust that that gives you a decent head-start for surviving this summer’s musical mayhem. If I were a better blogger, I’d give you some tips for surviving the onslaught of post-Jacko candle-in-the-wind-isms. But let’s face it; you’d never have seen Jacko at a music festival, rummaging in his pants for his MDMA powder. I submit to you that I make a better, more benevolent, more generously insightful … er… king of pop. Survive your Oxegen, your Glastonbury, your Tubbercurry Arts Festival! Survive and come back to me!
The first year I went to Glasto, as the cool kids call it, I unpacked my tent, set it up and prepared it for the boozy night of sleep ahead. I woke the next morning to find the tent on my face and I was soaked through. It was at this point that I found out that I had in fact purchased a wendy house….seriously……
nothing cool about a wendy house…..
It has always struck me as odd that all of these events are held within the walls of some estate. You would think that being grand kids of revolutionaries, subversives and nare-do-wells with a history of burning, extorting and general mayhem that these estates would be the very last place for a summer knees-up.
A comprehensive list Sweary. I personally attend festivals wearing an all-in-one, custom made mankini, constructed from the carcases of 18 pairs of disused wellies. The exoskeleton is impervious to rain, sleet, slush, snow and hail. The chaffing noise when I walk though, has been known to distract the bands.
But the VIBE Sweary. The whole togetherness, beingness, hereness and in the momentness. Lily Allen like Flann said recently, sucks cocks in hell with Kate Moss. It’s cheap porno from Blackpool.
This is excellent. Best of luck. Brilliant stuff.
And, like Vincent H said.
Lord fucking Henry spastic Mount Charles !
Vincent & Sniffle: I don’t think “Somewhere, somewhere, in a walled estate with its own herd of dear in Hampshire” works quite as well, but how tragic that it’s absolutely true. I guess the upper classes will always be better patrons of the arts than the residents of a small council estate somewhere, somewhere in a slum in Waterford.
Manuel, you’re right. There’s nothing cool about a Wendy house. And frankly, that the primary colours and plastic Georgian-effect faux windows didn’t give you a clue disturbs me. I bet you thought you were being ironic.
Flann, do you intend to patent such a practical item? My impression is that it would work well in certain (i.e. S&M) circles.
Hola Sweary!!
Michael Jackson is NOT going to heaven. He and all his families are Mormons. Is a well-known fact. He is already moonwalking across the embers!
Besos
Manuel
better patrons of the arts, My arse. The only reason they are doing it is for the cash.
When it comes to Michael Jackson and religion, the Pope can give a sigh of relief. It turns out Michael was formerly a Jehovah’s witness and apparently a recent convert to Islam. No catholic priests involved.
Thought Wacko was raised a Jehovahs Witness? Although his brother said something about Allah so I could be wrong…
I’ve got my sh1t together for the first year ever, going to EP in a camper van!
Hey, have you seen this news article?
New details about Michael Jackson’s Death Emerge
I was wondering if you were going to blog about this…
I was wondering how I was going to blog about it, with that big broken link my only chance of getting the inside scoop. Oh, you fickle internet, you!
“The estate of Michael Jackson wish it to be known that no Catholic Priests were involved in the King Of Pop’s demise.” One less scandal for the cunts, I suppose.
Lou: I want a camper van for my birthday, so I can fulfill my hour-long dream of busking around Ireland with only an air-microphone and my fleas for company.
Hola Sweary!!
Michael Jackson was not just the king of pop. He was the king of pop and sweets.
Now that honour will go to Gary Glitter, I espect. Or Jonathan King.
Besos
Manuel
Love the new website…..
WELLIES!
Well, the ONLY place to get them is from a farm supply store/catalogue.
After my Orvis wellies (clearance, $9.00) finally disintigrated into rubbery shards, I found a very nice pair of navy blue “chore boots” at QC Supply for $17.00.
I must say they stand out very nicely amongst all the fussy heart and flower prints when I’m picking the children up from school.
all best,
MaryAnn
Your new place is looking good doll, very suave and stuck-up indeed. Will I now have to wear a shirt before I can comment in the bar?
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Look, you green eyed little madam, most people like the disappointed Caith ni Holohan shite you toss out, but Mrs macBride you are not.
It was a lot easier in the 80’s… Ecstasy was legal, nobody searched you for drugs, hell, nobody searched you for anything. It was that way pretty much up ’til about ‘95 or so.
Yeah, yeah, I’m going back to my rocking chair now.
My last comment was not at you Lisa. Must check in future that the comment and the comment box go together.
Well thank God for that! I can sew my wrists back together now.
Jimmy Bee, I’ve always known you as a shirtless wonder; why change this good thing we’ve got going.
Fat Sparra, I’ll join you. I read about Ecstasy being legal up to 1985, and can only blame that fact for my conception.
MaryAnn: Indeed. Wellies are not supposed to be pretty. They’re supposed to be wellies. Ah. Wellies.
buy wellies before you take the drugs. A young fella i know pulled up terrible sore after spending 3 days in two left footed wellies.
Wendy Houses are amazing. You shush