If I had a pound for every festival I’ve enjoyed for more than 1 night I would have £2.47. I’m not really build for festivals. At 6 foot 4” I operate very poorly in tents and I have a terrible habit of getting out of my tiny little mind on the first night, thus rendering myself useless for anything other than snide remarks and petty complaints for the rest of the weekend.
If someone put on a festival within walking distance of my house (not within earshot, mind) then I would probably go (provided I didn’t have to pay, obviously). It would be a sweet relief to know that at any point I could just say sod it and scuttle home to cry and wank in the dark until i’m over the horror of unbearably excited twats dressed entirely in glow sticks screaming incessantly in my face about how they just saw Dead-mau-five and he was amazing. Not as good as the time they saw him at Sonar but still amazing. And, oh god why haven’t I been to Sonar, am I some kind of arsehole? Jesus died for all our sins, the least I could do is go to Sonar! Well I haven’t been ok, lets just move on. Most of the time at festivals is spent looking for Nigel. I don’t know who Nigel is but I think he might be friends with Steven. We walk around shouting ‘Nigel’ at the top of our voices until we either find him or find someone who we decide to rename Nigel. We’re not sure why, I suppose we are just crazy like that. You know, zanny, mad cap, off the wall, mad as a box of frogs, that’s me. Now fuck off out of my tent i’m trying to rack up in the dark and you’re not helping.
Taken from my monthly column in IDJ Magazine