Andrew Butcher
As everyone knows, the Reading festival starts proper the day before it
begins officially. Which for those without the foresight to purchase
wednesday entry tickets is Thursday. The best thing about Thursday is that
inavariably at some point in the early evening, in a moment of drunken
clarity, you realise you're completely off your chops and the festival
hasn't even started. This moment usually occurs after you've just handed
over 25 quid to a bloke who has somehow convinced you 4 Nurofen's and a
Sudafed will get you sufficently fucked to be able to deal with the fact
that you forgot your sleeping bag and you're already displaying the early
signs of Trenchfoot. No matter, you have a hazy recollection of a party at a
leisure centre somewhere and so you point your can of Oranjeboom toward the
lights and plow on through the mud. Inexplicably the Festival organisers,
ignoring their own warnings of severe flooding, have decided to construct a
makeshift car park on the banks of the Thames thereby ensuring anyone with a
wayward sense of direction becomes trapped in an enclosure which is
routinely patrolled by guard dogs and massive Scottish Crack heads...whoever
decided a thousand balding junkies was appropriate policing for a Rock
festival has obviously never taken a piss in one of these fuckers personal
portaloos. Undaunted, you scale the fence...the horrible blisters on your
palms are tomorrows worry, because for now you feel no pain..(that'll be the
Nurofen kicking in ) and onward to the party! . The party, when you arrive,
is less a party and more a queue. No matter, anything with a queue this big
must be worth waiting for and so you head for the back exchanging
pleasentries with the greasy hooded masses who are conspicous tonight by the
particularly staggering array of skin infections and hideous facial
eruptions. A little tip about Queing etiquette - Never assume the bloke
behind wants to hear about your difficult childhood and how you find solace
in the lyrics of The Manic Street Preachers.
Anyway, long and short of it, i was refused entrance to the party
because i didn't have a ticket and i spilt my poppers on the bouncer but
that's not really the point is it?
Mark, the Welshman.
