Guess what...

Saturday 13th September started in a way no day should start. I was up at 5am, driving my parents to Gatwick airport. From there I had to drive to the far side of Watford for a days work, then home again. If, at this point, someone had told me that before long I'd be in a field in Norfolk, soaking up the sunshine atop a haystack, I would have delivered a cruel and mirthless laugh to their face. I mean, what a preposterous suggestion!
Well, dear reader, as it turns out, preposterousness was the order of the weekend. I ended up at a house party in Mile End on Saturday night where I was the only guest in a state even resembling sobriety, due to my having driven there. It wasn't fun.


I was bored. The party was full of twats. I wanted to go home. Well, when I say full of twats, there were only a couple, with this gibroni being one of them. I mean to say, take one look at him. I wasn't sure whether I was more offendedd by his Mickey Pearce-esque facial adornments, or his ferocious spandex leggings. Oh no, wait a moment. It's neither. The most offensive thing is the pair of sexy little lacy knickers you can just make out through the sheen of his nightmarish lycra mumble-pants. That and the sweaty little ca-male toe.

What a cunt.

As I was saying my goodbyes, at around 5am, somebody asked me if I wanted to go to a little festival in Norfolk and do a write up for a website. They had free tickets. I had been awake for 24 hours.

I said yes.

So myself and 3 other intrepid freeloaders got in the car, buckled up, went back to mine to pick up the Tom-Tom and some extra warmth (a blanket, a coat and 7 T-shirts) and it was Norfolk bound, on our way to (the very last day of) the very first...

Antic Banquet

The journey was something of an experience. As time progressed, the onset of doubt as to whether or not we would be allowed access to the festivities was growing progressively. The press pass was for 2 people. There were 4 in the car. The passes hadn't actually been confirmed due to an administrative error regarding emailing the festival with confirmation of our attendance. Despite a "guarantee" of entry from one freeloading passenger (he knew someone who MIGHT be about later who MIGHT be able to get us in - that's a mighty large amount of MIGHTS for my liking), faith in our actual admittance to the Antic Banquet was wavering. It was decided that, should we be unable to attend, we would go instead to the seaside and see what that had to offer. After a double dose of Sexual Healing, we tuned into Norfolk's local radio and were astounded by the mundanity of the broadcasts. We heard promise of a reenactment of a wartime field hospital, complete with a real field gun being towed by a Chevrolet. How about that for attention to detail...
It all got a bit too much for our tired minds when it was mentioned that there was to be an interview with the owner of Britain's oldest light bulb. Best to leave that to the Norfolk folk.

After spending the best part of 20 minutes staring at a horses arse, we arrived at a tiny crossroads where I saw a hand painted sign saying "Antic Banquet - around the bend". There were two bends in the road. I took the wrong one. After realising my mistake and turning around in a farmer's yard, we back-tracked and finally found the entrance to the car park. At first glance, I could only see one car parked in it. On closer inspection it transpired that it was actually a huge field and the other cars were parked, rather sensibly, closer to the festival entrance.

Well, we had succeeded in stage one of the operation. We were in Norfolk. All that remained now to do was for me to exit the car, clear my throat, and stride confidently over the the security post on the gate and blag 4 of us in on a possibly non existent 2 person press pass.
Expecting the usual motley crew of Irn-Bru swilling Scottish sociopaths manning the door, I was expecting a less than hospitable reception. So, imagine my surprise when I was given a mandatory vodka jelly by the security team before they even considered our admittance. A bit of smooth talking later, and we were in, being escorted by one caped member of the door staff to the production office. After a brief chat with the production manager to explain what we were here for (and why such a task required four of us), we were left to our own devices. Which, much to the disgust of the other three, involved sitting on a haystack, getting our clothes a bit grubby and relaxing after the mammoth drive.


Whilst sitting atop my haystack, I saw one of the security team rush past with his radio crackling instructions. Naturally, I assumed that a bit of drama was afoot. Not at all. On closer inspection, I heard the immortal words barked from his radio: "They say nutmeg works a lot better if you stick it up your arse. Over". They were merely having a discussion about the psychotropic properties of nutmeg, and the most effective way to administer the dose. These guys were my kinda security staff, and I was beginning to get the impression that this was my kind of festival...

It was still early on Sunday morning and therefore not many people were up and about, but the few that were gave me the distinct impression that the previous 2 nights had taken Motherfuckery to the next level. One barefooted, shell of a chap I got talking to took it upon himself to tell me that the night before he had found himself inside the Google servers, having effectively hacked into them with his mind. He started rambling about being eaten by nanobots and mumbling incoherently, and then, after informing me that he was without sleep for 8 days, staggered off into the distance. If he was the gauge of rage by which everyone else was measuring themselves in terms of getting into the "party spirit", then we were in for some interesting encounters...



We were informed that the banquet would be taking place between the hours of 3 and 6pm, so we had a bit of time to kill. And I cannot think of a more humane method than to fill one's belly with beer from the bar. Which is exactly what we did. As the beer started flowing, people started to loosen up and games were invented, including see who can dive through a rolling hula-hoop without touching the sides. I believe that I came the closest to succeeding.

Around about this time I became acquainted with one of the most amusing people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. He was an Irish believer of the teachings of Rastafari, or, as he coined it, "Bareknuckle Reggae".

As I reclined on my haystack, I saw a disused ambulance swim into my peripherals. A couple of chaps got out and it became apparent that they needed help with something, so I volunteered my services. Unbeknownst to me, this ambulance contained the two freshly slain and roasted pigs which were to serve as the staple of our banquet. Without further ado, myself and the other volunteers paired up and carried the thankless beasts to the centre of the circle that had been formed by the hundreds of hungry banqueters. They were placed atop a large formation of haystacks and then promptly carved and served by the festival staff who were acting as serving staff, sprinting across the ring with plates in hand, ensuring that nobody went hungry. Absolutely amazing.


After the feeding, two of my fellow freeloaders wanted to go home; their hankering for the concrete delights of which London has to offer clearly proved too much. They left, amidst shoddy excuses involving having to work the next day. For a fleeting moment, a bargain to ensure they remained for the festivities was struck, which involved me wearing nothing but my pants and sunglasses for the rest of the night. I was all up for it, but they backed out at the eleventh hour and departed anyway, having found someone willing to drop them in London. Rubbish.
By this point I had firmly decided that I was going nowhere. I had driven about 300 miles that day, and I wanted something to show for it. That something was a belly full of beer, and by gum did I get it!
Back on my haystack, I noticed the barefooted chap (who, if you recall, had been mumbling about hacking Google's mainframe with his mind) prancing about wearing a huge unicorn's head, poking people as they tried to make speeches thanking the farmers for donating the pigs and the land, and also the participants of this pleasant little gathering. Clearly he was off his rocker, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. This was one of my last memories of Sunday night, as a potent concoction of anti-sleep and alcohol was slowly shutting my body down. Sleep had to come, so it was off to the back seat of my car for some well earned r&r.


After a few hours of the dreamless, myself and the other remaining freeloader stumbled from the car in search of tea and breakfast. The night before had been, I was informed, rather tame compared to the previous two nights. This was due to a large amount of festival goers leaving directly after the banquet. Nevertheless, there were still a few survivors shuffling around in varying states of inebriation. Much to my surprise, the barefooted, unicorn wearing neuro-hacker was still very much alive, despite his heroic performance thus far.



I got talking to him, and it transpired that he was one of the organisers of the Antic Banquet. Suddenly everything clicked into place. Prior to this revelation, it had been quite unclear to me how something like the Antic Banquet could come into fruition, let alone be conceived as a notion. What with the Make-a-Friend tent, where revellers were encouraged to create their own puppet companions, and the Tranny Trash Trailer where one was offered the experience of parading around trans-gender, I had hitherto been unable to compare this madness to anything else I had experienced. But I knew that with characters like this chap at the helm, it didn't matter. The Antic Banquet was a warped reality, constructed by following a warped blueprint which was drawn by a warped hand, in turn controlled by a collection of warped minds. The end result went somewhere close to blowing my mind.
I liked it.
It was a more than refreshing change from the usual festival experience of heaving crowds and groups of undesirables who don't adhere to the same standard of living as yourself. Every single person that we met had been warm and accommodating,
and with the same common goal - to enjoy themselves, but not at the expense of anyone else.

It got to that time of a Monday where one must embark on the long journey home whilst one still has a spark of can-do inside one, so we took our leave. On the way out we found a little village in the forest with a sweet shop, but unfortunately the shop keep was absent. Which was a shame, because I quite fancied a quart of something sweet. But, no such luck. So it was straight to car, sans refreshments, for the merciless drive home.

Radio Norfolk was as entertaining as ever, with reports of a spate of scarecrow thefts across the county, but that only lasted us so far. Then it was back to scanning the airwaves, trying to find someone playing a bit of Sexual Healing. No such luck. We played the chevron game on the motorway for a while which idled some time away, and counted the miles to the Capital.


London's bleak silhouette greeted us after a while and it was back to the familiar sights of fried chicken shops and concrete. Whilst my companion was bolstered by such comforting anchors to home, I was left wishing that I could have stayed a little longer in a field in Norfolk, lounging on a haystack.

I do enjoy a good haystack.