Battle to the Bitter End

Waiting for the coach to London...

• A girl-next-door looking girl with a grey puppy ambles by, complete with an affected dreamy gait, under the Sainsbury's sign that is adorned with pigeon feces. She is looking to see whether anyone is looking at her, especially the greased-up young men in the silver people carrier (I would guess that they have rented a New Forest cottage for a stag weekend. Booze and porn in a picturesque location, away from "The Citee"). But she is distracted when her cutesy, accessory puppy stops to eat something revolting and goopy from the gutter. She yoinks him away promptly. But it would appear that her chat-up ruse has worked, in a sense. Someone has finally noticed her and tries to strike up conversation! An elderly couple gab over her and the dog, as she wistfully watches the people carrier drive out of sight.




• A woman of about sixty in a long blue skirt, sandals, a white blouse under a pink cardi and greying blond hair tied in a low ponytail. She could be the mother of the puppy girl. She is carrying a wicker basket full of ye olde country flowers, and looks rather too quintessentially countrified. Much like a vicars wife in a Miss Marple novel, the flowers conjure the image of her rustically gathering her blooms in the garden of a thatched cottage. I should think it's more likely that she bought them in ye olde Waitrose. The whole effect, however, is somewhat ruined by the fact that she is engrossed in conversation with what looks alarmingly like a drunken tramp.




• A gaggle of cauliflower heads waiting for the coach. All bedecked in beige chinos and elasticated skirts, clutching their tickets and clucking in a frenzy. When the coach arrives, they surge forward and join ranks to strengthen their collective position in the queue. I loiter at the back of this gathering. It's the safest position for someone of my status, if there is one thing that cauliflower heads hate more than youth, it's a youth they suspect of trying to push in front of them in a queue. However, my careful positioning backfires. As the coach pulls up to park, it totally by-passes the queue and draws to a halt with the door directly in front of me. All the bobbly heads swivel in my direction, and I dare not turn around to witness the steely eyes I can feel boring through to my brain. Quick as a flash, a lady sporting a pair of very new looking, beige Birkenstocks and her daughter (who had previously bumped into me whilst hoiking up her bra) bustle around me to the side nearer the coach door, and stand so close to it that they are forced to move out of it's way as it opens. They cleverly manoeuvre this so as to push me behind them, into a definite second place. A freckly woman appears on my other side and feigns anxiety about where the coach is going (even though it is emblazoned, perfectly clearly, with the word "LONDON"). After she waggles her ticket in the air and asks the driver if he is going to "LONDON", she appears to believe that, having established personal relations with the driver (who replied "Yes" to her question), she is now far superior to everyone else, and pushes past Birkenstock-Lady, Bra-Daughter and myself, pipping us all to first place! Bravo! Well done you, Freckly Lady!




• As the coach makes it's way out of Ringwood, and the driver informs us that the toilet, located at the back of the coach, "...is for liquid purposes only."
  

Muddy Plums

Now that I have washed the mud, goop and fellow-festival-goer's piss from the hem of my Pirate skirt, and have returned to the begrudged bosom of employment, I can gaze through nicotine-addled eyeballs back upon the glory of an otter-ridden festival in deepest, darkest Dorset.

With wet wipes squeezed amongst the glittery trousers of yore in my boasting rucksack, bacon-rind and poppy seeds firmly wedged in between my teeth, I was ready for anything Saint Mary and her pet otters could hurl at me.

And hurl at me they did.
In no particular order...

• The delights of the washboard-backed, be-beaked girls of Gogol Bordello, although the lead singer appeared to have gone a.w.ol, you know, the lady with the blonde hair and a gap in her teeth.


• The flouncing hair of Bill Bailey with his unprepared, triple encore, complete with army-tank sized child bulldozing his way to the front.


• Raucous, mud-flinging dancing as a side effect of the disease they call "Bellowhead".


• The Tiny-Tea-Tent groupie and his unfortunate attempts to be gallant, despite forgetting the number 1 thing one does not ask a lady.


• Almost wretching whilst doing the ass-dance to honkin' Annie Lennox, although my luridly coloured bustle compels me to carry on.


• Joining The M in their weird trip around the world... "BELFAST!!" I hear you cry!


• Toilets, which at certain times of day can only be described as, as I commented to some random ladies, "HEAPED".


• A childish dream coming true: waiting an hour to be hoisted out of the mud by a tractor (The car! Not me!).


• Spectacular feelings of insecurity as girls consistently ask to borrow lighters (also in the aptly named "Pussy ParLURE" and magical mystery land at the bottom of the hill).


• Indulging in the truly British tradition of barbecuing cheap meat in the pissing-down rain.


• Opening my tent in the morning to be confronted by two looming twins, in full, surreal, fancy-dress, proffering stale mini-muffins and beer.


• Being constantly reminded of India, as the interesting aromas, heavy traffic and unconvincing sales-patter envelops me. And the monsoon.


• A cheapo silver top hat, bedecked with a stolen garland of flowers.


• Girls wearing LED-flashing braces in their mouths, only to later find them flashing in the twilight mud. (Again, the braces, the girls weren't flashing in the mud. At least, not where I could see them.)


• The discovery of the true worth of novelty wellies. God bless Priceless Shoes in Bournemouth!


• A medley of weirdos. Guessing which ones were in fancy-dress, and which look like that all the time was, for me, a never ending source of fascination.


• A distinct lack of The Aston's Fizz.


• Horror caused as my long awaited sausage is smothered in spinach, as requested, but looks strangely similar to the goop I have been trudging through all weekend.


• Forgetting how to walk on flat, dry surfaces, as discovered at the toilet-stop on the way home.


• Having an otter-tastic time!

This half-arsed, cop-out, listed blog was brought to you by the inexplicable need to record more about this event than simply a muddy girl in pants.

Fallen Goddess

It has been raining in a Devonshire field all night long, onto, and into, the tents of grubby festival-lovers slumbering in their canvas cathedrals below. They arise to find the grassy slopes transformed into mud pits. With only a sausage and an otter to comfort them, they think "Fuck it!" and skip their way to the front of the main-stage, where the clay-like mud has been whipped into a thick, creamy substance that bubbles and explodes under the rabble of be-wellied feet,stomping to regurgitated jigs.

Everyone looks rough. The revellers all sport sleep encrusted, baggy eyes, greasy, tent-hair, and grimy, sweaty skin, all swathed in the aroma of other people's faeces.

But amongst them, is a Goddess.

With low slung trousers that emphasise womanly curves, cascades of curls, a top that strategically reveals an ornate tattoo upon a bronzed back and a bottle of rum in one hand, all men's eyes are drawn towards her. She unconvincingly pretends not to notice, and giggles with glee as a soldier-type tries to engage her in a mud-wrestle. His friend wants a piece of the action too, and joins in. Soon, there is a whole group of men trying to wrestle the Goddess into the mud. She continues to swig her rum whilst giving as good as she gets, and smiles alluringly at each of her suitors as she pushes them to the bubbling, orange-brown depths below.

Now the centre of attention, she half-heartedly tries to invite her previously unseen friends into the fray. One boasts glitter-daubed eyeballs, blonde pigtails, a leopard-print fur-coat and a bottle of rum in one hand. The other is rather nondescript, with no bottle of rum in either hand. Leopard Girl laughs and slugs back more rum, Nondescript Girl does something nondescript, but neither opt to join the Goddess and her cluster of men.

Sometime later, and the heady music continues to swirl into the drizzly afternoon. The serious music lovers, standing back from the maniacal dancing contingent, have to dive for cover as the Goddess is dragged by her ankles through the crowd by a group of her admirers. Still clutching the now empty bottle of rum, head thrown back in drunken abandon, curls and ass leaving grooves in the orange-brown goop beneath her nubile body, she is oblivious to all. She does not even notice Leopard Girl stumbling through the crowd, heavily supported by Nondescript Girl, presumably tent-ward to vomit.

Not long after, an innocent young lad, enjoying his first festival, is sitting on a precarious bench outside the otter tent. He self-consciously rolls a cigarette and tries to look like he is comfortable in his surroundings. The effect is somewhat ruined as a mud-monster, wearing only a pair of orange-brown knickers and an orange-brown top revealing an ornate tattoo on it's orange-brown back, lurches from the nearby crowd towards him. The monster stumbles in his direction and grabs his face. Orange-brown hands smear goop all over his cheeks as the monster thrusts its mouth to his, ramming a rum-infested tongue down his throat.

The lad tries to retain his cool by fumbling with his tobacco and blushing furiously, the monster cackles with rabid glee and trudges up the hill presumably tent-ward to vomit.