I’ve been out of action over the last week as I had a rather annoying experience in Ibiza involving a scooter, the bitumen and the left side of my body. Call it karma after my last, whiny, humble brag post (it happened exactly one day after I wrote that post).
Fortunately, I am now in a sufficiently vile mood to complete the anti-thesis to my Top 5 memorable festival moments. Happy Summer, C-Bombs!
TOP 5 ABOMINATIONS OF THE SUMMER FESTIVAL
5. “Summer” Weather
“You must be joking!”
Unfortunately not. When you live in London, there is likely a 50% chance of rain on any given day. As quick as you can say “summer festival, bitches”, sunshine and green fields will be transformed into grey skies and mud pits.
“Summer” festival? Unlikely.
Do you remember the old adage, “children are to be seen, not heard”? It’s gross, isn’t it? A horribly antiquated sentiment. Obviously, in this day and age, no one wants to see children either. Certainly not in public places. Keep that shit at home I say.
Don’t get me wrong, I love children. (Wait). I like children. (This isn’t sounding any better). Children are fun to play with. (Hmmm). Children are cool. Okay? They be mad pl-ay-as. HOWEVER, there is a time and a place for them.
Most Australian music festivals are either 18+ events or they are specifically targeted for under-agers. It’s a good system. We have our fun and they have theirs – there is no need to mix. However, in the UK, parents seem to be happy to bring along their prams and picnic blankets and make a family day out of any event.
Personally, if Kanye West can be heard on stage yelling “put the pussy in the sarcophagus”, I would think twice before bringing nana and the kids down for a family picnic. Similarly, if I wanted to see Azealia Banks on stage in a hot, humid, heaving tent full of gurning chavs, I probably would not charge into the mosh pit with my eight year old girl riding horsey on my shoulders. Whilst she might learn an important life story about a “rude bitch nigga” at the 212, the significance might be lost when my little angel’s ear drums explode from the bass.
I’d probably just leave her home with a sitter. It’s called parenting. Or it’s at least responsible delegation.
“Gourmet” burgers, “traditional” Jamaican food, “Thai” chicken wraps. It doesn’t matter how much they try to sex it up, the end result is always the same. If you eat the festival food, ANY of the food, your rear end will be hauled up for days. Fugghedaboutit.
2. Chaka Khan
Chaka Khan might have been a Billboard charting disco queen back in the seventies, however after hearing her belt out the bare syllables:
“Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii’m everyone woman, it’s all in meeeeeeeeeee”
I am now convinced that Chaka Khan is a rouse. A Code Name if you will. Disguised as a pop star, “Chaka Khan” was really the project name for a secret, experimental, military grade sonic weapon, created by the Nixon administration in the height of Cold War paranoia. After thirty odd years of obsolescence, the CK Boom was taken out of decommission, dragged out a secret US military bunker, sold to the Tory government, and delivered to London’s East to kill all the homosexuals in the area.
I managed to survive her shrieking attack by covering my ears and retreating to Lana Del Rey (the simple and efficient defence mechanism to the weaponry, which put the CK Boom project on the shelf in the first place). However, I fear for the lives of the others, who had the bewildering inclination to dance to her banshee war cry. May their souls rest in peace.
1. Spoil Sports
Festivals are generally pretty happy places. However, for every 100 happy-go-lucky festival feel-gooders, there is at least one douche bag. We’ve all seen them. They’re vomiting in the porta-potties, shitting in the urinals, starting fights in the mosh pit and lying comatose in the line because they have taken too many mandies before they even made it into the festival.
They love to indulge, they have no self-control, no social regard and they are out there subconsciously determined to ruin everyone’s day. Usually, they don’t. Sure, they are annoying, if not a little gross, but otherwise they are usually so wasted that you can step to the right of them and be on your merry way, never to see them again.
However, what cannot be avoided are the over-enthusiastic, self-aggrandising, over-staying shoulder monkeys who visit mosh pits during the peak of a performance. Don’t get me wrong, I love the atmosphere of the mosh pit, the innate comradery, the shared joviality, the underlying anarchy. I love when fellow moshers get into the spirit and start Mexican waves, throw beach balls, crowd surf and even get on each others shoulders. It is all part of the fun. However, there is fun and there is narcissim.
These morons are always having such a great time, screaming their box off, swinging their bra or t-shirts over their head, “rallying” the crowd. In reality, they are merely oblivious to the fact that they have been blocking everyone’s view for the last five songs and they are massively over-staying their welcome.
TRUTH BOMB: the crowd came to watch the show and not to see your g-string wedged between your fat cheeks. Happy festival biatch! Now, how about a water bottle to the head?