fumbling bumbling tumbling stumbling grumbling humbling mumbling

Weather-wise, the summer of 2008 has been a bit lacklustre, to say the least. But only boring bastards talk about the weather, eh. I'm going to talk to you about the culmination of what has proven to be, without a doubt, the Summer of Motherfuckery.

Reading Festival 2008

I knew that this year's festival was going to be something of a test. Firstly, I had no ticket. Therefore I had to rely on getting there on Wednesday to be in with a chance of buying one on the door. Secondly, my bank card was in two pieces, a measure I had taken the previous week to ensure that I didn't spend any money before the festival. A foolish measure at that. Luckily, a replacement came in the post on Tuesday morning.
I had arranged to go to friend's house on Tuesday evening and be driven to Reading in the morning. That night, the song rape began.

We awoke on Wednesday morning, and loaded our belongings into the absolute beast of a machine that had been borrowed to ferry us on our journey. Thank you very much. It made the experience survivable, and what better way to roll up than in an Emo Knackerwaggon. Then it was giddy up and onwards to the 24-hour Wonderland that is Tesco in Slough.


We stocked up on the essentials; that is Cider, Tobacco and the necessaries to create a Vodka Martini. Then it was back into the tank, and Reading bound. It was a pleasant journey, the comfort in the tank was exquisite, and the alcohol was flowing. A copy of Roger's Profanisaurus was found, and I was once again violated by the very same song-rapist I had encountered the night before. Not before I saw where a certain someone really makes his money... that DJing thing? Its all a front. Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of Brixton...


We arrived in Reading, well oiled and quite unprepared for the situation that awaited us. It seemed that we were not the only bright sparks who had turned up early with the intention of buying a ticket on the door. There were literally thousands of motherfuckers queuing up for entry. Well, I say queuing. It was more a case of them milling around aimlessly. So we did the sensible thing and pushed in as far as we could, which, in hindsight, was a genius idea because I still ended up waiting for the best part of 7 hours in a hellish mass of bodies. I had my mp3 player stolen from my pocket, and received a clip around the ear from a cheeky unseen assailant. At the end of this ordeal, only two of us remained. Tired, bruised, but with tickets in hand, we sat down on the grass for some well earned r&r while we tried to establish the whereabouts of the others.



We eventually regrouped, and made our way to the campsite to meet some of the others who had managed to gain entry earlier. After being sent from pillar to post by the rather inept stewards, we finally managed to pitch the Snatch in complete darkness. This was the first Reading Festival I had been to that was not sponsored by Carling. Fair enough, their beer tastes like tepid piss; I wouldn't drink that Beer Cordial for payment nor favour, but I'll tell you one thing: those bastards know how to organise a festival. Festival Republic can kiss me where I poo, with their over-complicated entrance system. After 7 hours in a manic stampede, the last thing I wanted to do was have to walk the best part of a mile to a different entrance, fully laden with my bags. But I did because I had to. So, with the Snatch pitched (and looking like some kind of 70's bohemian love shack), the party started and I drank myself to near oblivion and fell asleep with a full can of Cider in my hand.


I awoke, rather soggy, on Thursday morning (with an empty can of Cider in my hand) to the news that one of our party had risen with excruciating pain in his lower back. Myself and a companion hot-footed it to the First Aid tent where we sought help for our stricken comrade. Shitty circumstances, but we did get a ride back to the campsite in an ambulance, and we got to see the back stage area and everything. So it wasn't all bad. For us anyway, our friend with the back pain was rushed to hospital on a morphine drip, and diagnosed as having 3 kidney stones lodged in his innards. After passing one stone, a night on the ward, and a rectal examination by a hot female doctor, he was back on the campsite the next day with a fist full of medication and a look of sheer pride on his face. What a trooper. In his honour, the drinking continued (as did the song rape).

Friday morning came and I felt as sick as a dog. The previous night's festivities had knocked me for six and it took a cup of salvation army soup, a slice of watermelon and a bag of doughnuts before I felt even vaguely human. Today was the first day of music, but I don't really remember seeing any bands. I had forgotten that I was at a music festival, so intent had I been on getting Motherfucked. I wasn't really too concerned though because Sunday was the day for me. Friday and Saturday's line up didn't really have too many acts that I wanted to see, which left me with more time to get messy and cause mischief. I had thoughtfully packed a smoke bomb and a roll of gaffer tape, all I needed now were some recipients of my Motherfuckery. I had to play the waiting game...

I didn't have to wait long, there were chumps everywhere crying out to be Motherfucked. The chap on the right was affectionately nicknamed "The Tumbler", on account of him tumbling through our campsite in a ginger, drunken whirlwind. As he lay on the floor, a sodden mess, he wailed that all he wanted was to make friends. We were feeling less than friendly so we escorted him to another campsite where he was promptly gaffer taped to a chair. The chap on the left tried to cut him free with a pen knife, at which point The Tumbler seized the knife and proceeded to stab his rescuer through the hand. Theres gratitude for you, eh. (This picture was taken pre-knife crime). And still, the song rapist was busy aurally abusing anyone within earshot.


By the time Sunday came around, I was a shell of a man. The constant song rape had rendered my hearing untrustworthy, anything even slightly musical took the form of that ghastly song. However, victim or not, I was looking forward to a sterling line up in the dance tent. Chromeo, in particular. And they didn't let me down. We danced until the music stopped, and went in search of some final night Motherfuckery.


Emos were fished for with a makeshift fishing rod, and indeed one was snared by the line wrapping itself around his willy. Serves him right for expressing his freedom by running around stark bollock naked. Reading Festival does seem to attract idiotic fooligans who feel the need to free themselves, yet their only method of achieving this is to draw all over each other's bodies and offer free hugs to all and sundry. Another popular activity seemed to be upturning the huge oil drums that served as bins and getting all tribal on them, beasting them like primitive drums. One troupe of wannabe Stompers particularly offended me, so I decided to smoke bomb them. There was a slight breeze that night, so the smoke dispersed quite quickly, but it was worth it to see the look on their faces as they saw me brandish the stick, fuse alight, thinking I was about to dynamite them. Groups of people were gaffer taped together, someone got a can of Cider thrown in his face, I got cans of Cider thrown down my throat and I passed out after having some eye drops applied to my dry and tired eyes. They made them worse.


Monday morning came and we were faced with the daunting task of de-camping and returning to the real world. It took some will power, but eventually we were back on the road. I felt as though I had left an important part of myself behind, I couldn't quite place it though. However, at least the song rape had stopped.

Reduced to a mumbling wreck, unable to construct a coherent sentence, I got back to Windsor, left my bag at a friend's place, and wandered into town to mingle with real people and relearn normality. I bought a huge burger from the Gourmet Burger Kitchen and went to sit by the Thames to watch the geese, eat, and evaluate what I had learnt over the last few days.

It had been fun. Or at least I assume it had been fun. I wasn't quite sure. I had laughed a lot, that much is true. But as I sat there, I suddenly became aware that I was both physically, and mentally, in pain. I hadn't slept properly for 7 days, I had been forced to listen to the same poxy song constantly for the best part of a week, and my liver was whimpering like a ginger orphan on his first day in the workhouse. I had promised myself that Reading was going to be my swan song. I owe it to myself to honour that promise. Therefore the Motherfuckery stops here. I've got things that I need to do, and I can't afford to let Motherfuckery hinder me any more than it already has.

For now, at least, I'm taking a vow of Mothercelibacy.

And you know what you can do with that fucking Hot Dog




Song Raped by Mickey Mouse