Let's call her Lorraine

There was once a girl, lets call her Lorraine. Lorraine, was setting off on a voyage to the south of Ireland, to see her then boyfriends sister graduate from college. The graduation was on a Friday afternoon, and Lorraine was all set to head off on the Thursday beforehand, giving her time to land there, hang out with her boyo and his family, get a good nights sleep and then perhaps try to look amazing for the next day. But things never seem to go to plan, and what began as a fairly bog standard trip from Stansted airport to Ireland, went horribly wrong..Let's talk to Lorraine to see how the trip went:

Calamity Jane: Lorraine, describe the events leading up to the flight?
Lorraine: Well, which flight are you on about, there were many over the course of this epic adventure.

CJ: The, initial flight, lets say.
L: In the weeks leading up to the trip, I was very excited. And in fact, was jittery when I booked the flights, as I was eager to get home and see my then boyfriend. I remember booking my flights to come home for it, nervously checking that everything was in properly.

CJ: You say you left early that day to get to the airport on time, can you tell me more about that?
L: You're right, I left my office in Wimbledon at about 4pm that day, heading off to Liverpool street to get my Stansted Express train to the airport, and I left early so I could get there in good time.

CJ: Did you notice anything unusual that day, any air of what was to come...
L: To be honest, nothing really stands out, but I guess I should have figured all was not as it seemed when I boarded the wrong train, even though it said Platform Five for the Stansted Express, and it said Stansted Express in big writing across the carriage.

CJ: Go on...
L: When I looked around, I could see that everyone seemed to be in their work clothes. And when the train pulled into it's first stop, I realised that this wasn't the normal journey. On closer inspection, I saw that no one bar me had a suitcase, strange for a train designed specifically to bring people to the airport.

CJ: A sign of things to come perhaps?
L: Not really, at Tottenham Hale I jumped off, and lucky the next train to come in was the Express, and I snuck into the first class carriage and remained there inhaling silence and Brut aftershave from the stressed businessmen around me. What happens later, was maybe my Karma for sneaking on, who knows.

CJ: In your own time Lorraine, can you tell me what happened next?
L: The train journey was fine, my flight wasn't leaving Stansted until 19.30 that evening, and I made it to the terminal at 18.30, having had checked myself in earlier on in the day. I was giddy, and excited, and also nervous as I'm not an easy flyer. But I had a smile plastered on my face, and music blaring in my earphones, and had a lovely little chat about MeatLoaf to the boarding card inspector when I was queuing up.

*It is as this time I must tell you, that Lorraine goes silent, and looks down at the floor. A single tear rolls down her face as she remembers something obviously traumatic and stressful. 


L: Sorry, it's just every so often it hits me. The man scanned my boarding card, but then his face looked puzzled, almost pained. He...he looked at me and said, god I still remember those words, he said "Sorry Lorraine, but this ticket is booked for next Thursday. There's nothing more I can do" I'm ashamed to say I cried, the tears just sprang up out of nowhere. He told me to go to the Ryanair desk and see if there was anything they could do. But you know how it is, there's nothing that anyone can do in these situations, it's just life, you know? No more flights into Ireland that night, to any destination.

CJ: So what happened next, what did you do?
L: I despaired, I'm human what do you expect? But I phoned my boyfriend, and explained the situation to him. He was angry to say the least, but not with me, just at the situation. Wouldn't you be? I wasn't thinking straight, apparently mumbling about booking another flight and sleeping in the airport. But even though he was hundreds of miles away, he wasn't going to let me sleep on the floor of an airport, so he calmed me down and made me see sense. I booked another flight, this time early in the morning into Kerry airport, and booked myself a hotel room in a travel lodge down the road, on the proviso that there was a shuttle service to and from the hotel to the terminal. Happy days eh?

CJ: Ah yes, good old travel lodge's, they do come in handy don't they. Would you care to talk about your experience there on that night?
L: Yeah of course, it was fine you know? The receptionist was lovely, very welcoming which was nice, and very sympathetic after I had told her what happened. She booked me in for a wake up call and a space on the shuttle bus the following morning, so I went to my room happy. The original flight had cost me about £70. The next flight cost me about £180 and the room at the inn, ha ha, cost me another £100, so it was working out quite expensive. God, I remember I had a savings account before all this started! The room was fine, basic, small, smelt a bit like mildew, but it could have been worse, I was glad of a bed. And as a treat, I went out and foraged for some KFC so happily munched away and went to bed at the criminally early time of 9.30pm to prepare for the following day.

CJ: Mmmm, KFC. Sorry, so early start the next day?
L: Yeah, really early, about 5am start the next day, my flight was due to leave at 6.20am, so I was booked into the shuttle bus for 5.15am, so was happy to have bee woken up by the receptionist, and was following her instructions to find the shuttle bus to a t. Except I couldn't find it.

CJ: How do you mean...
L: I mean, I couldn't find it. It was dark outside, as it was October time, and the car park was full of cars and vans and trucks, it was a truckers paradise there. But I couldn't see the shuttle bus anywhere, and it was only 5.10am, so it couldn't have departed already.

CJ: So there you were, alone and vulnerable with a big bag on your back wandering around a car park on your own at 5am of a cold October morning.
L: In a word, yes. I phoned the hotel to see where the bus was, and she said it had left, how had I missed it? The next one wasn't coming until 5.30am and I feared that would be too late. But the receptionist told me to hang fire, that they would get me there. The minutes ticked past, but it wasn't getting any lighter or brighter outside. I thought to myself, that I couldn't, I wouldn't miss this flight. That I would make it on time. But when 5.30am came and went with no sign of the shuttle bus and me wandering around a car park on my own, I began to feel less hopeful, and most despairing. I called reception again, to see what exactly was happening, only to be told the bus had gone, and that I was to go to another part of the hotel to get the next one. But trying to find that part was like trying to find Bin Laden, I hadn't a clue!

CJ: How do you get out of a situation like this, what did you do?
L: I calmed down, remembering a Bear Grylls episode where he told people to not panic when faced with danger as that cloud's your judgement. So I took a deep breath, and looked around for any indication as to what I could do or where I could go.

CJ: Go on
L: Well, once I relaxed, I could see a sign pointing to the other reception area, at the other side of the hotel, so I went, and miraculously enough, I managed to make it, lumbering bag and all, for the 5.45am shuttle bus.

CJ: But that's not where it ends Lorraine is it?
L: No, no there is another part to this tale, one which I don't like talking about too much. Would you just excuse me for a moment so I can, you know do some deep breathing or whatever? Thanks.

*With that, Lorraine leaves the lounge and goes to the downstairs en-suite. Muffled sighs and cries and slaps to the face can be heard. I cut the tape recorder, and give her time. 


L: Finally getting to the airport, £2 lighter as well, I ran through security, only to be told by one of the men at the scanners that this flight had left. But I refused to believe, I had memorised the flight number, gate, and also the time of departure, so I knew he was wrong. I hadn't ran in a long time, so running to the furthest gate to catch my flight was a shock to the system to say the least, but I knew it would be worth it.

CJ: So you made it then...
L: Oh yes, I made it to the gate. Five minutes after it had closed. I could see the plane, reversing to begin it's taxi down the runway. I had missed the flight. And I had no choice but to do the ultimate walk of shame back through the throngs, tears streaming down my face. All I could do was cry and feel sorry for myself, but I had to hold it together and make the call, the call I really did not want to have to make. But I did it, attempting to make this OK, and to get to Kerry. He told me I was daft to even attempt another journey, but I was determined. I'm stubborn if nothing else, and once I get something into my head, there's not much that can get rid of it. So I sat myself down, tears still coming, at one of the internet desks in the departures hall, and booked myself on yet another flight. This time though, I couldn't process payment, it just wouldn't go through, and I had to phone my bank.

CJ: Was there a reason?
L: Yes, good security measures were in place, whereby my bank thought someone had stolen my card, what with all this hotel booking and flight booking happening. So I had to wait patiently while they unlocked my card and sympathised with me for what had happened. But there is a twist to this flight booking. There were no more flights into Cork, or Kerry from Stansted. So I had to do something I never thought possible...I had to book a flight from Heathrow to Cork at the cost of about £210, and somehow traverse across the city to the other side to get back to Ireland.

CJ: In morning traffic, across London...does this tale end well for our heroine?
L: Oddly yes, the gods of travel were smiling on me that morning, some repairs being carried out on the M25 meant the traffic flow was at an all time low, and that driving through would be a doddle. And it was! We got there for 8am, and my flight wasn't leaving until noon, so I really did have time to regroup and relax. But there's more. Of course there's more.

CJ: Do tell...
L: Well, queuing for security before I could get to the gate for my Aer Lingus flight, I got chatting to the security man. He was an affable chap, he seemed a bit down and out, so we swapped horror stories of why our days were going so terribly wrong! He was being laid off, so my sympathies laid with him. However, seeing my plight, he took pity on me and fast tracked me, carrying my bag himself across to the fast track lane, and beckoning me over. I thought, maybe this is the start of the good things today? Maybe this is where it all goes right!

CJ: I have a feeling it doesn't.
L: Oh how you know me CJ! I've never had the x-ray machines in any airport go off for something in my carry on luggage before, so you imagine my surprise when it started to beep. Nothing to worry about I thought, or else something very wrong to worry about! Still, kindly security guard motioned for me to relax, we'll sort it all out, got one of his fellow officers to come help him find what was making the thing beep. I had to empty out my entire bag, showing my clear plastic bag of 100ml or less items to make sure that wasn't what was setting the machines off. But there was nothing, honestly nothing they could find, and I could see it in Kindly Security Guards eyes that he wasn't sure about me now, or my sob story. But the queue was being backed up, and there was nothing there, so what could he do. Repacking my belongings, I said my goodbyes and was met with stony silence. Grabbing the handle of my bag, I swung it down from the table top, only for it to spew forth the contents of my bag all over the floor as I hadn't zipped it up properly.

CJ: Oh my word, the horror!
L: Tell me about it! Knickers, bras, tampons, toothbrush, whatever you can think of spilled everywhere, as I frantically waded about on the floor of Heathrow Airport furiously repacking my bag. Hoisting it up on the table, I zipped it all up, only to find a bottle of water lodged in a pocket it shouldn't have been. Turning to face the security guards, I beamed at them, and produced the water. They were quite relieved to say the least, as Kindly Security Guard told me that even though they had found nothing, they would have had to watch me all through the airport and until I boarded my flight in case I did something. The flight went off without a hitch, was happy to be on Aer Lingus, and arrived to Cork airport a while later, to be greeted by a jazz band as it was the start of the Cork Jazz Festival. Had to travel another two hours in the car (I was met at the airport by a not so happy chappy boyfriend as you can imagine!) but I got there. I got there. And that, CJ, is the tale of how a girl called ahem, Lorraine left Wimbledon at 4.30pm on a Thursday afternoon, and landed to Tralee Co Kerry, at 5pm the following day.

The names have been changed to protect Lorraine's true identity. She works as a PA, and is in charge of booking people's flights.
If you have been affected by this story, please seek help, as that's a bit strange. Lorraine received no payment for this story. 

If it's good enough for Madonna

Randy Jackson, the most un-black Black man on earth

Reinvent: 1. To make over completely
               2. To bring back into existence or use
               3. To do something again, from the beginning


Can anyone do it or is it just the stamp of celebrities desperate to keep up with the Jones' and in the press?. Do I really want to reinvent myself as in description one, or do I want to opt for description two, bring back the essence of myself from wherever I left it last. I think I'll opt for number two, bring it back rather than overhaul completely. It's not like I am that much of a nightmare that I need to totally dig up the basement, put a loft conversion in the attic, get rid of the old kitchen and put a skylight in the new bathroom extension. No, I need a good clean down, perhaps a sky light in the already there hallway to let some extra light in? And maybe a wardrobe makeover too, and by makeover I mean getting rid of the clothes I no longer fit into, and then not being able to afford to buy any more for another hundred years or so. 
     Most people will have their identity crisis either just as the New Years Comedown sets in, or in Spring Time when people are heralding a new season by cleaning and clearing everything in sight. Not me, no I prefer to do things at the end of Summer. Yes, I realise that next week, it will be November and officially winter, what with the weather happening at the moment,  I am being fooled into thinking it is late August. Look outside the window right now and tell me you are not feeling the same? The end of the summer fidgety feeling is something I read about recently, and it really rang true for me.I take stock of what I have been up to for the previous nine months and start to notice things that need to be fixed, changed or deleted entirely. And I have started already with my diet. Don't worry, I am not going to start banging on about the power of the edamame bean (they're disgusting by the by) or extolling the virtues of the Maple Syrup Diet (really...I mean REALLY???) but just things that have bugged me and things that I shouldn't really eat anymore, I have stopped eating them. Its only been a week, but I feel better and even a wee bit lighter. And dare I say, happier.
     I know this is probably an insult to feminists everywhere and would have Emily Pankhurst spinning in her grave to hear that this is how the female's of the future were viewing themselves, but yes, I have said it, when I am lighter, even marginally lighter and a bit healthier for not stuffing my face with junk, I do feel happier. But that is a story for another day. Looking down at myself, I would like to change everything, and I think I'm going to. I want my hair to be long, so I'm growing it. I want my face to be a little bit brighter but without resorting to chemicals, so I'm not smoking. I want my teeth to be all lovely and white, so I'm using quite expensive toothpaste. I want ab muscles and toned arms, so I'm hitting the gym etcetera etcetera But how far do you go before you start to lose sight of yourself, of your personality? Will I be able to rein in the overhaul to a manageable level and still retain Laura, or will I lose the run of myself, and once I start seeing a change in my physical appearance, will my mental equivalent change too?
     Of course, there are parts of my mentality that I would like, nay love to change. The fact that I say stupid things without thinking and then repent in leisure, the fact that I can be really slow on the uptake, the fact that I feel guilty for the smallest of things, even bad things that happen to other people and that have no link to me, my sensitivity that causes me to cry and stuff that a grown woman shouldn't cry about. There are a myriad of things, but then do I want to be rid of them, as if they do go, then will I still be me? Could this be part of the reason for celebrities to go off the rails at certain points along their career? 
     Think about it, no one is born a celebrity, bar maybe a few children thrust into the limelight while they are still in-utero,  so at one point or another, they had to be "civilians" like me and you (well maybe not me, coz I've always been fabulous dahlink) with body hang ups and fat days and greasy hair and dandruff and sitting on their friends floors crying over the boy who dicked them around and sneaking home drunk so their parents wouldn't catch them and of course, wearing hideous clothes that they thought looked cool. Did they consciously decide to overhaul themselves to make it to the top? Did they refine their personalities to fit in, thereby having an inner melting pot on the simmer all day everyday, only getting to release their true selves once they went home at night? Is this where celebrity eating disorders begin, making major body overhauls and not knowing where to stop. Read any aimed at women magazines each time there will be a weight controversy issue with someone being too small or being too big, and a pull out diet supplement. This would actually be enough to drive anyone to the loony bin, so I could have a point with the eating disorder comment. 
     Going off topic there for a bit, I got caught up in my own musings. What I am really trying to get at, is wanting to change but not change beyond all recognition. I have the most wonderful friends and family (even though we argue like cats and dogs and none of us are alike in anyway except for the dark hair) and for some strange reason they seem to like me and want me around, so I don't want to not be me any more, I just want to be a polished me. Going back to the interior design analogy from earlier, maybe I should just change the outside, make it cool, calm, prettier, more sell-able, but still keep the inside just as it is, a nice, cosy and familiar place where there's room for everyone and everyone is welcome.
     Don't worry, I haven't lost the plot, I'm sure by next week I will be bored and have been distracted by fluffy puppies and a new TV show. 

Ahhh...Lovely fags

John O'Leary said it better than I ever could, lovely, lovely fags. Why oh why is it so hard to stop smoking? I'm a reasonably intelligent person, I understand the dangers of smoking, but for some unknown reason this seems like the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my relatively short life.
     Let's be honest, cigarettes are awful, they really are. I've been a dedicated smoker for, ashamedly, over a decade, despite knowing the health risks and the financial hazard. There are no positives for smoking, there really aren't, and this is me saying this, Fag Ash Lau! Let's see, you smell, you get stained teeth, you pay a fortune to get these things and ironically spend another fortune buying perfumes and aftershave and teeth whitening products trying to counter act the effects. Your clothes reek, your hair reeks, your face looks ashen grey and unhealthy, your lungs don't thank you for smoking, you are inhaling poison straight into your body, your blood supply is being choked on a regular basis, your energy levels drop considerably, you get light headed and headachey, you get cravings for poison, and narky when you don't get to satisfy your addiction. Knowing all those things and more, why am I sitting her fantasising about smoking.
     The horrible thing is, ciggies go with tea, they go with a drink, they go with tea break, lunch times, after dinner, after sex, after bad news, after good news, at the end of your working day, reading, waiting etc and even though I can a logical and rational adult by times, not having a cigarette for the above activities is proving extremely difficult for my brain to reconcile. It's all I can do to not run to the shop across the road and buy my Marlborough Lights and sit out in my garden and smoke one and wait for the crushing guilt to consume me. I did run to the shop a while ago, just for something to do, and bought my self some biscuits and a magazine, neither of which I wanted but both of which I have made good inroads into. Why am I finding this so difficult?
    I know that there are people who have never smoked and are perfectly happy in their everyday lives and do something about their boredom instead of fidgeting and fixating on the nicotine fix. So why can't I? As I sit here and type, my cup of tea is looking accusingly at me, being unimpressed that it doesn't have a cigarette accompanying it, only peanut butter biscuits, it's in a huff with me for not bringing it on a journey from my living room to the garden. As non-smokers (or never smokers) people are quite happy to stay inside on these cold wintry evenings, so why I am driving myself mental to go out into the dark and cold and smoke...
     Having been an ex-smoker for all of nearly two days, I am already feeling the benefits of it, I really am. My hair doesn't smell, I don't look so grey of face, my teeth are less yellow (the inordinate amount of tea I drink helps the staining!) my energy levels are at warp speed, I was able to run at the gym on Monday, something I hadn't done since my, ahem, training for the London Marathon back in 2010, I also was not totally ready to sell my soul for more sleep this morning when I woke up, my skin is softer, the remnants of my tan from my holiday is back, I can cycle up Tooting High Street hill without wanting to just fall off my bike in exhaustion, I am happier. I am, I am, I am pretty feckin' miserable too!
     Seeing people on street corners waiting for buses, clients, or friends as they place the filter between their (chapped) lips is hard to take. Smelling that freshly lit cigarette makes me almost drool at the mouth. Walking behind someone who is smoking on the street turns me into a type of smoking Hannibal Lector following them at close range and sucking the smoke in through my mouth. If you are a smoker, just take a quick glance behind you every so often for fear of being stalked for your precious... I love not smoking, I love not being beholden to nicotine, I love smelling nice and not needing to smoke, I love having energy (some of you yes, I can hear you grumbling about my extra energy) and without smoking I am now like Tigger bouncing around the place. So why do I feel so despondent without them?
     I want to be outside inhaling the poison, feeling the smoke swirl in my mouth and down my neck, hitting my lungs and then coming back out after a deep inhale. I want to be outside smoking. I want to be outside with my tea reeking of fags. But then I don't, I really don't. I will feel bad for smoking, I will think that I've messed it all up and might as well go back to the shop and stock up. I want to taste the disgusting smoke flavour in my mouth, but on the other hand I want to retain my fresh mint breath! I want to be outside in the smoking area coz we all know on nights out, that's where all the fun is. But then I want to not have second hand cigarette smoke on me when we troop back into pub. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh it's tough. But why! Why is it so tough to choose between killing myself consciously inhalation after inhalation, and healthy clean and lovely smelling things? Why is my seldom used logical side arguing with my often used fanatical side over this? Why is it so hard to say no? Why do I try to make myself feel better by taking a look at a celebrity who is a known smoker and go look at her, she looks fine and she's on forty a day, not a wrinkle at her, when there are walking living advertisements for the dangers of smoking all around me. I don't want to be an addict any longer, and that's what I am, a smoking addict. I think about them all the time, I am actually driving myself simple with lust and longing for a smoke. Why can I not say no to foul smelling, evil, poisonous, expensive cigarettes! There are no pros for smoking, only cons. And there are no cons for not smoking, only pros. So why is this proving the toughest challenge I have ever faced?
     All I can do is try. And God loves a trier doesn't he?


p.s. Soon after this piece was finished,our hero Laura caved and went across the the road to the shop and bought some cigarettes. Last seen in her garden in Tooting with an oncoming smoking headache and a sheepish guilty look on her already guilty looking face.
     

Article recently published in Focus On Hocus

As fans of magic, I think most of us dream of being able to afford that trip to see David Copperfield preform in Las Vegas, or see Criss Angel’s worldwide tour as he brings his stunt filled show from city to city. The reality isn’t quite the same, with the price of tickets soaring and airplane costs ever increasing, it ensures that most people will never get to see some amazing magical events in real life. But with the advent of technological wonders like Sky+ and HDTV, these experiences can now be enjoyed in the comfort of your own home. Which let’s face it, can sometimes be better than being out and about.

My current magician de jour is Dynamo, he of the Magician Impossible series currently being show on digital TV. In his everyday life, he is a humble guy called Steven from Bradford, unassuming, polite, and very shy. But put a deck of cards in his hand, and he turns into Dynamo. If it were not for TV or word of internet mouth, I for one would never have heard of him. And how happy I am to have been able to see him broadcast into my sitting room on a weekly basis! Technology may be pushing us further apart as a global community, but it is bringing into our homes these masters of sleight of hand. The tricks Dynamo has been able to show us on his program, from show stopping walking on the Thames, to simple things like putting a mobile phone into a glass bottle, have been phenomenal. If it were not for TV bosses taking a chance on an extraordinary young man like this, millions of viewers, not just in the UK but worldwide would be missing out.

There has been a renewed interest in recent years for magicians appearing on TV, with shows such as MindFreak, Penn and Teller’s Fool Us, and even Derren Brown’s many events being showcased. Penn and Teller have even been broadcast this year on prime time Saturday night television, the perfect timeslot for bringing magic shows back to the masses. This show in particular, gave amateur magicians a platform to show their talents and try and fool the big men in magic, with the main prize being a show running in the home of tack and magic, Las Vegas. What an opportunity for budding enthusiasts, not only getting to go on national television and do their thing, but also attempting to fool two of the most recognisable faces in the magic entertainment industry. I hate to say it, but my first experience of Penn was on “Friends” when he was a door to door encyclopaedia salesman attempting to scrounge Joey’s last fifty. Sad and all as that was, it was the medium of television that brought him to my attention.

Television may be the root of a lot of problems, ones which I won’t go into now, but without it, us in the mainstream may never have heard of Dynamo. Criss Angel and his entourage family wouldn’t have had much of career, and Derren Brown wouldn’t be dandying across our screens on a Friday night. The added bonus of things like Sky+ and YouTube, enables people like me who are utterly astounded by the tricks being shown to rewind over and over and over again, and figure out how exactly they manage to do what they do. These programs, inviting the big name stars of magic to come and share our evenings with us, will hopefully continue to bring joy and wonderment with them for years to come. When hard times fall, there is a yearning for nostalgia and light entertainment. And they are just some of the things these shows provide. They hark back to the TV magicians of old who were about personality and performing as well as magic, and to tricks of the mind and feats so jaw dropping, that they evoke almost a childlike amazement from grown adults.And all for the price of a channel subscription and a TV license. Now that’s magic.

So you have your ticket that you've blown your monthly rent on. You have your tent that smells like a combination of deodorant, old alcohol and grass. You have your outfits. Your essentials include wellies, dry shampoo, crate of beer/cider, chairs, crisps, toothbrush etc and you are eeeeeeeeking with the excitement of it all. But when you stop and actually think about it, I mean really think about it, are festivals really all they are cracked up to be?
     Sorry for making you even question the national debt of a developing world country you spent on your precious three-day festival ticket, but I want you to open your mind to this one. How many other occasions in life would you willingly spend that amount of money to sit in a glorified field in the rain with 80,000 people with mud and queues and overpriced food listening to some questionable music? Lets face it, like most things in life,you have very high expectations of festivals. For the weeks leading up to the festival weekend, the papers, the websites, the news feeds, the Tweets are going spare with updates and changes and stages etc You cross off, mentally or physically, the artists that you want to see, going over in your head how you can see one band, but squeeze in that poetry reading that's happening half an hour before the band end. But this almost never happens, if you, like me and most other people, are into a variety of different things that are happening that weekend, your artists and interests will be spread far and wide. Too far and too wide for you to actually get in on the proper action. For when the first band you want to see are really getting their set going and getting everyone into it, that two man play you read the review about is happening in the forest part behind the portaloo's, and your favourite baked potato place is only open for another hour. The quandary! With that in mind, you've learned your lesson for the following day. Pick and choose a few that are evenly spaced out so that you can get up and properly attired for the day ahead. Packing your bag with your cans or bottles, you head off to the first choice. Only for them to be on at 2pm in the day. Which in fairness, feels a bit wrong to be dancing like you are having a fit in broad daylight. And lets face it, the sound isn't really that amazing. In fact, who the Hell put Sigur Ros on an outdoor festivals's line up anyway? They don't normally sound like this. But then when you are listening to them, its usually at home, in your own cocoon room with the dim light of a candle glowing. Not exactly going to light a fire in the bellies of those standing around in a hilly field on a Saturday afternoon. You had arranged to meet friends after this actually hadn't you?
    Oh good luck with that. Unless you had this planned with military precision, there's not a hope in Hell you will actually find them when you go looking. Your mobile phone won't work, and if there is a spark of reception going round, theirs probably won't have any. And your battery is just about to die. And its going to take you half an hour to get to them, which by that time they'll have given up on you and have moseyed on down to the dance arena.
     By that late afternoon, you are beginning to lag a bit, and want to eat something, just something simple like a rasher sandwich, or some toast or something. Can you find it? Nope. I can find you fresh guava juice pressed by the soles of virgin monkeys high up in the Tibetan Alps, but no actual white bread. Bad for the soul maaaaaaaaaaaan, why do you insist on eating bread full of bleach that kills children in developing countries! Because damnit it tastes nice, and after the Friday I had of wrecking myself down at the BodyTonic arena, I deserve a white bread sandwich. But you won't find it. You can find thai green curry in a recyclable box with ethically sourced chop sticks, but not a battered sausage. Who goes to a festival to eat properly? Who goes to eat at all! But still, you queue, and you pay over the odds for a, ahem, meal and head back into the mêlée. Thinking its time you had a snooze, you decide to venture back to the camp-site, making your ways past the circle of tools hammering on bongos since Thursday night. Why oh why is there always a circle of tools hammering on bongos at every festival. If you are a bongo player, would you cart yours down to a festival site? Really? Anyway, to Tent City!
     Drawing nearer to where your worldly possessions are left basically wrapped in a piece of fabric for almost 100,000 people to quite easily go and steal right under your nose, you get this whiff. Just a tainted smell of something in the wind...its musty, like old boots. And its earthy, like soil in your hands. And the merest hint of eau d'urine. Then it clicks. That's camp site. That's where you live until Monday. Whatever sun you woke up to that morning when you were nursing your twenty-four hour Friday binge is now baking the mud surrounding the tents, giving it that lovely country smell, in otherwise, of shite. Gingerly (or not, depends on your stamina, time of day, and alcohol intake) you step through the tents, inevitably falling over and onto one. Muffled curses come from the crypts and you dole out the apologies. Cans, bottles, cigarette butts, skins, fold up chairs, lonely wellies, crushed tents and bodies block your way. But finally, you see your temporary home and make a beeline for it. 'cept it's not actually your tent. It looks very much like it, but it was the only one on sale at Argos for under twenty quid so it's possible that someone else in the country bought the same one. Swinging your head side to side, you spot at least five more similar ones. You also spot at least five more people in the same meerkat stance looking around vaguely for a tent that they thought they recognised. Once you actually locate your tent, you realise that you are not going to get any sleep, as a) someone has already beaten you to it and is currently KO'd in your place b) someone has weed all over it and you cannot go near it c) someone has stolen it. Delightful. I once saw a tent in the car park of the Electric Picnic making a break for freedom at 8.30am on the Monday morning in a tumbleweed motion down the field. Was anyone bothered or running after it? Nah, twas Monday, saved them packing it away.
     Getting up from your peaceless slumber, you're ready to throw yourself back into the party, having properly arranged to meet your friends somewhere. But when you wake up, that nasty rain shower may have passed, but you were on a different planet when throwing yourself into your tent, that you left your shoes outside. They are now damp, squelching and a bit miserable to have to stand about it. By this time you're feeling just a little bit shit, the booze has worn off, your joy at being at a festival has dipped below the enjoyment line, your feet are cold, your tights have snagged, your hair is limp and you have ran out of cigarettes. What is a person to do! Pay a tenner for a souvenir metal box of ten ciggies? No, go and scab them off random other people, unless you have had the foresight to stock up and buy up all the Marlborough lights in your local shop. And as a smoker, you feel bad for scabbing. No one likes a scab, especially at a festival when the delights are hard to come by and are protected by people more fiercely than the treasures of the Sierra Madre.
     With the days entertainment officially over, people go en masse back to the campsite, where the after party's are in full swing. How people have the energy to keep the tunes blaring til six am is beyond me, but they do.More technical equipment than the main stage is somehow plugged into a randomers camper van and whether or not you want to, you are invited to the after party of the weekend, the soothing sounds of pounding techno blasting across the site, what fun!
     But you somehow get to sleep, in the midst of Jonny Took Too Many Pills yapping away to himself and the trees and the neighbouring tent holding some bongo playing competition and the person across from you getting to grips with a blow up doll, you drift off. Only to be woken at an ungodly hour to face the final hurdle. Emerging from your tent, you don't know what time it is, your phone died along with the other festival goers, no one really knows if they should start drinking now, or leave it til they feel its a respectable hour. Blinking in the morning sun, your eyes adjust themselves and you see things clearly in the campsite. For me, the third and final morning of a festival is what I imagine End of Days will be like. The great unwashed are roaming around with a hunger in their eyes and a fag in their hand, bodies are strewn in the pathways between the tents, tribal beats are emanating from somewhere in the far yonder, a tent is ablaze on the horizon, helicopters fly over head to take the hoi polloi away from this godforsaken place, faces streaked with dirt, people with butts hanging off their cheeks from where they fell asleep in the gazebo, a universal moan is coming from all around as people wake up in various states of come downs and hangovers, and the place reeks. But you rally around, you decide that your new best friend is the guy roaming around with the giant tea urn who might as well be riding around on a white horse saving people from the depths of despair by offering caffeine into their hands for an actual reasonable price. Today will be different, today will be a pure day, you might even get a massage, or a juice, or you might just tear the arse out of it and start as you mean to go on, by drinking that bottle of Buckfast you have managed to sneak in. To Hell with it, Buckfast Avenue is where it's at. You know how the day pans out, so I won't bore you with the details. Come midnight that night, the weekend draws to a close. You lament over your last can of the acts you didn't get to see, of the friends you arranged to meet but never got around to, the food you wanted to eat versus the food you actually ate, the money you spent on nothing, and long drive home, as no one really lives beside a festival site. Times like these, I am glad I don't drive, leaving the hard work to someone else, mu ha ha ha!
     In hindsight, best effing weekend EVER! I for one will be there next year, yeah I'll give you a shout, I'll be the one in the Trilby hat with the bottle of Buckfast and the green wellies, meet you in the woods yeah?