05.08.03 - 09:09am
On this day in the history of Our Lord my supercool wasp-coloured Nikes that the dole gave me for getting a job are soaking in my artist-style (dirty) sink, but why exactly? You would have thought that by the time a man gets to thirty-three years of age he would cease to find the fun in trying to get into the Folk Festival for free via some humiliation and lots of mud. Especially when he isn’t really a folk music type, or not that folk music anyway. We did want to see Julian Cope, and we could hear “Upwards at 45 Degrees” while we were still trying to work out how to get into the chalk pits, or Romsey Beach as it is known round here, but it was still light at that point, and we were still sober. After about five cans of Stella it got dark, I got muddy feet, I hurt my knee, I got some thorns in my fingers, and I got escorted off the site by security twice. Finally we got in, me by rolling under a fence next to some policepersons, and everybody else by walking in through the main gate. Mission accomplished, we went to main stage whereupon I had a whitey and we watched a deeply uncool band. Even the folky fans with mousy hair and good skin seemed to be forcing themselves to believe that they were enjoying it. Then we got lost getting out and took about a month getting home. It was fucking wacky, man. I’ll probably do it again next year.