Festival

by pauland1707

There they all were, on the train: Wellington booted, beered-up, beshorted and bevested.

Just don’t get us started on the bevested: Top Shop Pop Culture. What is it with band names on bevested one’s vests: The Ramones, Motorhead and now, please, The Clash. Ask any of the bevested ones what these names mean and typically it’s “well it’s cool, innit”. Well, no, quite frankly it’s not cool, these were bands with a message, some meaning to their contemporaries and now they’re just logos for the beshorted. Sort your heads. Where were we? Trains.

So off they go, cheap cider and lager alongside the carefully thought out sarnies that Mummy knocked up, to “The Festival” – “well it’s cool innit”. Well, you want the truth, in our opinion, err, no. Let’s explore: you’re going to stay in a churned up field reminiscent of the Somme for a long weekend, eat food that normally would not pass for use as a building product, share a khazi with several thousand people who all, curiously, want to use it at the same time and be forced to listen to stuff that the Americans didn’t think was suitable for assaulting General Noriega. And then there’s a mosh-pit and crowd-surfers. What larks!

But you’re having a good time, yes? Risking trenchfoot, industrial strength diarrhoea, tinnitus and being crushed by a 24 stone Slayer fan from Workington. And meanwhile, sitting in some plush office in the city with the old Dr Who and some quick Jamaican, the organisers are wetting themselves over the amount of your readily gifted folding that is headed to their account. You’ve probably even travelled on their train to get there and if, God forbid, you get trenchfoot next year you’ll be visiting one of their hospitals.

Just take of The Clash tee-shirt, you don’t understand what it means and, quite frankly, you probably never will.

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