Today, I find myself desperately sad.
It is not because I accidentally left my windows open and my bed was soaked through with rainwater while I was out. Ah, the wonderful British summertime.
It is not because I accidentally broke my Flour Baby and spilled such an impressive volume of flour over my carpet that my mother is convinced that I am either a coke addict or a closet baker.
These creepy, arrogantly happy fucks are Flour Babies
My cupcakes are shit, but my class A drugs are excellent quality. I’m basically Alex Vause.
It is not because I managed to throw EIGHT CONSECUTIVE FUCKING GUTTER BALLS whilst bowling yesterday. How??
It is not because my GCSE results day is an excruciating 27 days away. Like who the fuck does that? I spend my whole summer wishing for it to end, just so I can find out whether I scraped a C in Geography.
I better have gotten a C in Geography – I did not fucking wade in a river measuring rocks for three days for anything less.
The real point of this blog post (if there ever is any actual point to the ramblings I post on the internet) is sadness and nostalgia.
“Over what?” I hear you cry. Or maybe that’s the voices in my head.
It is because I want to go back to Wireless.
On the 5th of June, a couple of my best friends (aka the greatest people you will ever meet) and I went to Wireless Festival in Finsbury Park.
It was my first festival and not my kind of music so I wasn’t expecting it to be fantastic.
You know what they say, losing your virginity is not easy or comfortable, but it’s necessary to get to the good stuff. Wireless was where I lost my festival virginity.
Wow ok so that sounded odd, but you get what I’m saying, right?
I didn’t expect great things when we rocked up to the train station, exhausted from our school prom the night before. My hair was a wreck, still frizzy from the back-combed updo I’d been wearing. Yep, it was exactly as classy as it sounds.
We must’ve looked a complete car crash, heading into London with two of my friends singing 5SOS (“It’s pronounced 5sos not 5 ess-oh-ess”) at the top of their lungs and the rest of us trying ever so hard not to slip into a coma.
We arrived, after a valiant tube ride in which I am 90% sure the middle aged man in beige trousers next to me filmed one of my friends on his iPhone (he STANK of urine and desperation), to the announcement that Drake would not be performing.
I’m sure you can imagine, I was gutted like a fish. Like a fish in fish aisle of sainsbury’s. All fishy and gutted. All fishy and gutted and lying on ice, staring up at the fluorescent lights and lamenting over my fate.
Too much sarcasm?
Anyway, the atmosphere at the festival was insane. Like, I was petrified of being in the crowd and getting trampled/suffocated/mugged. I thought the claustrophobia would kick in the second the throng of bodies increased to anything more than five or so.
I could not have been more wrong. The feeling of being a part of the crowd was phenomenal, second only, I’m sure, to being on the stage. I found myself singing along to songs I didn’t even know, dancing (which I do not generally do, as it is considered only slightly outside of the definition of a natural disaster) and throwing my hands up in the air.
The people were friendly too, which was uncharacteristic of London.
One (very drunk) man in a white wig stumbled up to us, we were sitting on the grass drinking milkshakes when he decided to strike up conversation.
Drunk man: Hey! Why aren’t you guys partying?
Us: We’re just taking a break, chilling. Go party for us!
Drunk man: taking a break? You guys look about 16!
Us: We are
Drunk man: Oh shit, I gotta go before I get arrested!
One of my favorite things about the day, aside from standing so close to Labrinth that he may have actually breathed on me, was people watching. The people were awesome!
We sat in an area which we later fondly named the ‘Valley of Piss’. The queues for the loos got longer, and therefore the only logical thing to do (apparently) was to piss up against the black mesh barriers behind some food trucks, in front of everyone. I definitely saw vagina a couple of times.
Some poor man taking a phone call leaned up against the pissy mesh and just looked at his hand, aghast.
Later in the evening, weed smoke actually replaced oxygen in the crowd. A pair of lesbian/bisexual/overly sexed high girls started grinding on each other, and later, bizarrely, tried to include my friend, Abigail, who just sort of stood there like…
A woman did cocaine in the crowd (I may or may not have hooked her up with some ‘flour’) like a foot away from us. Rudimental was insane, and I fell in love with one of their singers. (Her name was Anne-Marie, and our love will burn for all eternity).
I was shoved around a bit by three sweaty older women who looked like bitchy dinner ladies on their day off (let’s call them Sandra, Debbie and Chardonnay). Ladies, if you’re reading this – which you’re probably not as I doubt you can use a computer – elbowing me in the face will NOT make Labrinth love you. Sorry.
I even used one of the port-a-loos, which was more disgusting and horrifying than you can possibly imagine. It was like a dark stinking pit of despair with pee droplets on the seat and the cardboard tube in the middle of toilet rolls shoved down the bowl, alongside a used tampon and a small gas canister. (??????)
All in all, though, it was fantastic. We even got a carriage to ourselves on the way home and ran up and down it, swinging on the safety poles and singing ‘Titanium’ at the top of our lungs. (Have I mentioned how much I love my friends?)
And, like all good addictive personalities, mine has latched on the the atmosphere and the crowds and the drunk people.
Long story short,
someone take me to a festival.
(Preferably Anne-Marie. Girl, if you’re reading this, I am single and ready to mingle ;] )
Lots of love guys and dolls,
until next time