Baptism of fire about to happen.
I'm going to my first English music festival tomorrow.
Four days of camping,
The Brit bought me a ticket for my upcoming birthday next week (eeek! fuck!), so a few of us are going along.
For four days of hippie, Wellington-wearing festival madness.
Bestival is kind of like Glastonbury, except more boho I'm told. There are hippies everywhere, and am told I will be squatting in a pit should I need the toilet.
No sirree. Not on my clock. I will not urinate or otherwise with the masses. I point blank refuse.
People dress up, get off their faces, and live the dream each year on the Isle of Wight, where it's held.
I will be a hippie bastard for four days AND convince my boyfriend and everyone that we need to wear a pair of Madonna conical breasts.
As our dress up. This year's theme is 'Pop Divas,', so who better than Madge and her pointy tits?
So. What the fuck am I letting myself in for. Here I type wearing a blazer, a power dress and clutching my smartphone. You have to queue for two hours to charge your phone there. You're literally at the mercy of the elements.
Mud, rain and music.
And all from my tent, I will be able to hear Bjork screaming like an Icelandic swan.
I am rather fond of Bjork. Mad as a bag of wasps, sure, but she'll be there. As well as The Cure, DJ Shadow, and dude. Dude. The. Village. People.
If I can stand up and am not too shitfaced, I'll release myself from our foldable camping chairs and YMCA like a motherfucker.
The Brit's bought a mining lamp to attach to his head, and I have bought 8000 wet wipes.
So we can stay hygienic during this four day music campathon on the Isle of Wight.
I'm getting seriously excited now.
PS: No. The Vivienne Westwood bubblegum boots are staying safely at home.