Monday, September 19, 2011

bestival - part deux

September, sometime

No rest for the wicked. Not on this clock.

Up. Wet wipe my body and wash my pits and face under the bag shower we bought.

"Bag shower." Mate, I'm not even fooling around.

Some of the others are queuing for the showers. This is my opinion on the matter: pants.

You don't shower at a festival ok. You live and embrace the dirt, motherfucker. You sanitise yourself with Nivea wipes, non-fragrance. Queuing for a shower not only is a waste of two hours, where you could be eating a breakfast baguette stuffed with eggs and other breakfasty detritus, but also, what the fuck.

I mentally prepared to be dirty for three days. I'm not going back on my word. You're a pussy if you shower. If you're going to be a hippie, fucking be a hippie already.

That said, I didn't have a great night's sleep. Too much party party party has given Aunty Peas a giant headache. And a fucked up neck from sleeping in a tent.

Am grumpy face.

Well that's slightly better. I walked around the 'esoteric' field. They have the obligatory palm reader, tarot reader, crystal punter, but they also have massages and shit.

Mate. If my feet were cleaner, and my back - to be fair - I'd have done it. Nothing sorts out a festival hangover like a good rub. Pampering I'm happy to pay for.

But I instead went to the Vegan stall.

Was worried my consumption of crap had given me scurvy in the last 3 days, so hit myself up with a hummus salad pita.

The bird behind the hummus tub had dreads and was wearing something that looked like a human Dream Catcher.

Then went to find the tea place. Where they serve you a brew in a mug and you can sit and relax. Momentarily take yourself out of the festival's madness.

I sat sipping on a tea, served to me cheerily, behind the back drop of a soothing Ella Fitzgerald soundtrack and watched the world go by, for what was probably hours.

I've become more British than I care to acknowledge. Tea actually does improve the world. It actually does make me feel better. Tea is the fucking biscuit people.

Much later

Dude. The Village people are playing. We congregated at the main arena, me now on a fuckload of Red Bull, and did - in real time - a mass LIVE YMCA.

The 'C' in YMCA.
Me and 40 000 other people. Did a huge, large YMCA.
What a riot. You hear the song in every random bar in Pietermaritzburg and/or Grahamstown, and here, I was watching the little gaylords live!

The 'A' in YMCA.
Got my second wind. And we all went onto the second act. The CURE.

Big, indie and awesome. They played my favourite - Lullaby - a song in my top ten - definitely - and it was truly awesome. We all dressed up again.

Missioned around checking people, sounds, dancing tents and other random shit about - saw a lot of fucked people.

I've never seen so many fucked people - and I mean - off. Their. Heads - in one place in my life. So fucked, there is no fighting or aggression going on. Everyone is just super loving and nice.

We went to the Moroccan tent for some shisha and watched the world go by until the early hours.

I'm torn out. But wow.

Last day
You mean after four nights in a tent - we have to LUG THIS SHIT BACK UP THE HILL?

Well punch my arm and call me Warren.

The Brit and his brother must've seen the looks on our dirty little girl faces.
And henceforth "commandeered" a trolley.

Not stole; commandeered. Was too chuffed to argue ethics and values and we put all our tents, bags and other shit on the trolley and all pushed it up the hill.

We have been spectacularly lucky with the weather the last four days. It's rained once, and at night. Only now is there a bit of slushy mud. That we can actually get our wellies dirty in.

After pushing the thing up the hill, we gave it to someone else.
obviously. This is what people do at festivals. Steal and then give away. It's the whole ethos see.

Much later
Took about 6 days to get home. Ferries, bus, car, taxi and back to London.

And a week later as I write this, can say only now, that I have recovered. Sleep deprivation and constant partying will do that to Aunty Peas who is now 31.

But Jesus that rocked. I've ticked the box, I've done a festival and I loved it.

And taking a hot shower at home? Fucking. Magic.

In some ways my 31st birthday was better than my 30th. It has to be said.


Flarkit said...

Easily one of the driving reasons for going to all-weekend outdoor festivals, is that utterly amazing hot shower when you get home, followed by the mug of tea, yummy sammich and your clean, soft, welcoming bed. THE BESTEST!

Peas on Toast said...

Flarkit - without a shadow of a doubt, coming back to first world luxuries and/or home comforts has got to take the cake!