I think we have way too much stuff. I know we're camping in the middle of a field, but 8000 wet wipes in my backpack feels like I'm carrying a fucking Steinway.
Yip. Too much stuff. Fraught with irritation. The queue for the ferry across to the Isle of Wight is longer than a Dick Cheney biography.
I also can't wait for my mate to be employed. I seem to be paying for all her lunches. I'm also grumpy because we have tents, camper chairs (one is a recliner. The dude at Black's camping shop upsold us. Fuck it's a hack to drag around.)
Oh and the boys have like, 20 kilos of beer.
This lugging shit around schtick wasn't in the brochure.
JESUS FUCK, ANOTHER QUEUE?
We have managed to blag a ride with a few locals across the island. Sweating like an animal.
And have come across the third long, snaking queue of the day, entering the site. Which - to be fair - is a series of rolling green hills in the middle of this island, and all is very pretty and green.
Much much later
Just fucking kill me. I'm never ever fucking doing this again. I'm too old for this shit. The boys have dumped us in the middle of this place, with all 50 000 people trying to do the same thing - while they cart stuff to where we will pitch our tents.
Angry, grumpy and sore. I might as well crack open a beer.
It's taken us about 7 hours to get here. I'm sitting in the middle of a meadow, drinking merlot out of a squeezie bottle, on the camping reclining chair.
Once I get drunk, maybe I'll forget what an effort it was to get here.
Thank fuck for wine, motherfuckers! We are at Bestival! We have wind up lamps and our tent is pitched. Everyone around is super friendly, and everyone is wearing wellies.
There are tons of different food stalls here, pity I'm on WeightWatchers. I'd go bananas otherwise.
There's even a Pizza Express. I bought a hot jacket potato, drenched in cheddar anyway.
I've been woken by a series of doofing. In the stark light of day, a shitload of people have come in the night and put tents next to us.
Music is starting to blare from the 8 bandstands and stages dotted around the place.
There are flags and flowers and hippie stuff everywhere. I'm....in a hippie commune.
This is either hysterical or I'm way out of my depth.
Christ. I'm turning 31 and I'm at a festival.
If anything, this is one helluva'n experience. I've never seen anything quite like it.
This place is insane. There's so much stuff to do and see, I doubt we'll even get to all of it. If you have no interest in the music, you can go and chill out in the 'Ambient forest,' where there are hammocks strung up. You can even join a yoga class.
We did a pee behind a tree. As nature intended. And frankly, it's so much better than those Porta-Loos. I cannot begin to describe what I saw this morning. If you're looking for diet tips, inbox me. Basically.
The food here is phenomenal - anything you want, done so beautifully. Paella, French crepes served to me by dudes wearing stripey t-shirts, organic soups, teas. I can drink a cuppa tea from a vintage tea cup in this London bus:
We're on the drinks now, hoping to catch some live music this arvy. And get off our faces. Yay!
Yeah, so we're off our faces.
I'm dressed like a post box, the Brit is dressed like a doctor, and his brother is dressed like Colonel Gaddafi.
Yes it's random. We had to go to a dress up stall last minute and these outfits were all that was left. The other girls in our crew have fa-jazzled their faces. People here can paint and gem your faces up.
I'm in all red, top to toe, stockings and wellies included.
We found ourselves raving - as in making funky shapes and doing the Post Box dance (?) - at Arcadia. They were at Glastobury this year, and basically set this structure up in the middle of a field, that blows out fire balls and laser lights.
The Brit thought his hair had caught fire at one stage. It hadn't.
Some dude in spectacles sits in the structure and throws out some banging beats.
Then we met some random dude called Dave who joined our party and became our instant new BFF. He'd lost his mates and his tent. As one does.
Then we missioned up to another oomcha oomcha tent, and basically followed the thronging crowd all over the site.
It was mad. We saw some pretty interesting costumes, not to mention behaviour. And people chewing on their jaws.
One dude, only wearing a pair of red pants, and chewing his face off, was escorted out by two cops.
The costumes are outrageous. I could watch these people all night.
The Brit's brother in his Gaddafi outfit looks like an African leader. It's hysterical. It looks like he stepped out of Ghana, with his flowing outfit billowing out behind him.
Night two sleeping in a field.
40 wet wipes used (10 facial, 30 other). And counting.