It’s 12:16am and I’m sitting on a boat. Why? ‘Cause I’ve spent the entire weekend at Bestival.
Question number two: why the hell am I not sleeping on the boat like the other 6?
No bloody idea. I’m knackered but my body has decided that sleep is for losers and let’s send the bloody brain into overdrive. Awesome.
So here I am. Wide a fucking wake on a boat in between the Isle of Wight and Southampton.
Enough whining. Bestival is as magical & as comfortable as ever. Comfortable you say? Why yes. We had air beds, pillows and duvets in our gigantic prebuilt tent. Screw slumming it in (what can only be described as) the hell hole that is normal camping. Fart in those tents and the guys 4 hops down would get a mouthful of it. Mmm.
The toilet situation – not so delightful. Imagine Russian roulette with poo as the bullet. Certain port-a-loos you ventured into could kill you with the power of ultimate smell hell as soon as you open the door. Others might have poo on the seat. And then some might be alright. It’s a stressful situation at the best of times and even more so if you’ve been knocking back the ciders all night.
Then there’s the weather. I’ve been super lucky with the last 5 festivals I’ve been to and sometimes even wandered away with a mild tan that looks like I’d fought with a dirty mop. Not this time. This time we played the enjoyable game of dodge the torrential down pour between glorious bloody sunshine. It was quite something. One minute you’re basking in some toasty rays, the next you’re soaked to the skin.
And the music. This is one reason why Bestival is my fave. It covers every bloody genre possible and ’cause of that, you don’t end up with a field full of jakies who want to stab everyone and anyone. Which is nice. I caught glimpses of The Flaming Lips, Tom Odell and Franz Ferdinand. I jumped around to some DJ next to a giant ship whilst a half naked man was suspended above me by a crane and a random girl requested that we all wore glow stick wristbands. I danced around to The Polyphonic Spree: Rocky Horror Picture Shoe in a rubber ring that someone had found on the floor (hours of fun and ensured you kept your Smartie tube of personal space). I had an enjoyable prance around to Disclosure. I wanted to kill a middle aged drunk lady at Chic featuring Nile Rodgers. I jiggled around on my air bed to the joyful sounds of Fleetwood Bac (why leave the tent if you don’t have to?). I drank vodka jellies (that were bought from a stranger) at Fatboy Slim and jumped around like a lunatic.
Then there was Snoop Dogg. I can only image he’d have been amazing if the sound system wasn’t a bit on the dodgy side. He, of course, tried some of his Snoop Lion stuff which was greeted by silence and confused faces. But they carried on smoking weed until it was over and normal service resumed with some nice ladies twerking up against his crotch.
On the Sunday, I had a dilemma. Do I see someone I really didn’t care about but would never in my puff get to see again, or do I go see someone who I really enjoy. Soz Elton, but you got ditched. Now I like Elton John, don’t get me wrong, but he doesn’t blow my mind. Unless he was going to dress up as a lion, stand on a big ass rock presenting a kitten whilst singing Circle Of Life, I really couldn’t care less. So I went to see the chaps that are Dan Le Sac & Scroobius Pip. By far the better choice. We wiggled our way to the front, made friends with a penguin, discovered that the Scottish struggle to say ‘purple burglar alarm’ and admired Scroobius’ beard in all of its glory. Track after track of pure glory. If you haven’t seen him, go see him as soon as you can find your bank card.
That’s was the only artist that I could actually see. Festivals aren’t made for short people. Next time I’m taking stilts.