Festivals are unrelentingly miserable. They are. You may think they’re not but they really are hellish places filled with hellish people. If you disagree, you’re probably one of those revellers who make sane humans cry with frustration.
And this weekend sees the Reading/Leeds festival kicking off. There’s no question that organisers and attendees will be saying things like “it’s going to be the best yet!” despite the fact it is going to be the same as every piggin’ festival on the planet.
Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.
All festivals share the same crushing lows and very few highs. For a start, festivals are filled with musicians who are, without doubt, the neediest and most self serving wankers in human history. Moreso than all the hecklerspray writers put together in a sack made from smug.
They will preen on stage and flick their guitar leads away from their legs like they’re Roman Emperors, waiting to watch to faint with unbridled delight. It’s at this juncture that you should hurl a cup of your own faeces at them. It is what they deserve and the only language they will truly understand.
Of course, the only people worse that the bands are the people who think of themselves as ‘festival types’. These permanently sunburned idiots in novelty hats and bandanas will throw up the devil sign and stick their tongue out whilst whooping like jocks on spring-break, only these people have added self-worth because they recycle occasionally and are thinking about buying some shoes which are vegetarian or something.
Mingling in amongst all these are the foppish wannabe stag-lads who will laugh at themselves for being THE FIRST PERSON EVER to think of carting their tents and beer crates in a stolen shopping trolley. They will then get plastered all day before becoming THE FIRST PERSON EVER to shout “boolllooooooooocks!” in the dark of night in the hope it spreads across a litter filled field like a plague of locusts.
The whole festival experience is that of a giant house party filled with forced fun. People fight the resentful misery by necking as much piss-weak overpriced lager as possible and smoking joints out in the open. The latter gives them a sense of cod-freedom, like they’ve just landed in some bohemian shangri-la.
Then there’s the toilets. The towering monument to human excrement and tampons stood proudly against a sea of twerps, all waiting to hover dangerously over seats covered in shitty bog-roll, fag-ends and people’s piss-splash.
It’s okay though. You can always retreat to the safety of your tent which will invariably be disrupted by fools who constantly trip over your guy-ropes and shout “SORRY!” just as you were about to nod-off. All these combined, it’s little wonder that you can find people near to tears come the Sunday, blubbing about how beautiful everything is. This is exactly the same as someone who has just been released from a hostage situation by terrorists who have been switching between threatening to cut your head off with safety scissors and offering you a sandwich.
Festivals – carnivals of spent condoms and average music designed for those who like their music muffled and stinking of wet-dog.
It’s all too beautiful, right?
Rockgeek says
Don’t forget the butt fucking prices one has to pay whilst service goes down the Gary Glitter