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.
