volcanic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- how to have fun in a field It's festival season again, if I'm to believe what the media's telling me. I've never been a massive festival-goer. I really like the idea of them, and when I've been I've mostly had good times. Mostly. My first festival was Reading in 1986. Remember, this was at least three years before Grunge happened and changed the face of Rock for ever. Back in 1986, Rock either meant stinky bike leathers, facial hair and guitars that went chugga-chugga-chugga or stone-washed jeans, Bon Jovi poodle mullets and holding lighters aloft during power ballads that ALWAYS had a drum break that went DUNH-DUNH-duh-DUNH-DUNH-duh-DUH. (Yes, just like the one that heralds the end of EastEnders) And back in 1986, Reading Rocked, according to the official slogan. I went with my friend Erica, and met up with another friend, Dave. Three of us squashed into a two-man tent- although, admittedly, Erica went off with a strange bloke on the second night (and returned with his coat and wallet on Sunday morning). The memories of the rest of it are hazy. I was secretly in love with Dave (and you can look right back to my very first entries to read more about that), so one that stands out is me and him, huddled shoulder-to-shoulder in the rain, watching Saxon play "Wheels of Steel". I know Hawkwind played, and had dancers doing Dungeons and Dragons stuff with big axes. I also remember my mum kindly supplied me with a stack of plastic cups, into which she'd tucked a note, begging me not to take any drugs. Bless her. It must have been good, though, because we went back again the next year. the Rock landscape had mutated a little by then- Zodiac Mindwarp had inspired all the Goth bands to dump their paisley and lace in favour of bike boots and AC/DC riffs, and this time I was sharing a tent with my friend Sebastianne, who enjoyed dubious infamy due to the hook which took the place of his missing hand. He seemed to think that he was in danger of being pounced on in the night, so he took steps to avoid this by laying his detached prosthesis down the middle of the tent, because he knew it freaked me out. Needless to say, I never attempted to seduce him. The hook though, turned out to be most useful. We found ourselves camped right next to a gang of bikers, whose Mammas had driven down in a transit van stuffed to the ginnels with beer. We got chatting with them, and they were entranced by the sight of Sebastianne skinning up joints with his sole hand. Now, despite the fact that Sebastianne remains to this day one of the campest gangly indie boys I've ever met, he managed to convince them that he was a former biker who'd lost his arm in a nasty accident where his Triumph Bonneville- and his hand- were totalled. This led to instant bonding with the bikers, who kept us supplied with goodies all weekend as a result, and made us honorary members of their gang. Good times, even if they were fuelled by big whopping fibs. I didn't go to Reading again until 1989, and everything had changed by then. There was a body piercing caravan (which was really shocking in those days) and lots of grungey boys and a discernible yobbo element (as my mum would describe them!). And I fell out with Dave, who was my festival companion once more. The whole thing was wet and cold and miserable and I was glad to get home. I didn't go to another festival until WOMAD in 1996. WOMAD, despite being held on exactly the same site as Reading, was much more my cup of tea. Lots of families, kites, techno and well-meaning earthy types who seemed to spend the whole weekend gloating about it being like "Glastonbury USED to be..." And there were showers, too, which meant I didn't feel itchy and self-conscious all weekend. And of course, I'd got Fatboy by then, so he came too. He had a magnificent time, even if it was slightly blighted by a severe attack of diarrhoea. The guy I'd gone with had got us access-all-areas passes, so we spent a fair amount of time chilling out in the backstage bar. The rumour was going round that Peter Gabriel was going to turn up any time, and sure enough, as the room went quiet and everyone turned round to see the great daffodil-headed-one enter, Fatboy came running up to me shouting "Mummy, I's just pooed myself!" Oops. Still, my temporary embarrassment was soon alleviated. Standing washing Fatboy's pants in the backstage loos, I got chatting to a nice lady who was doing the same. (That's the thing about being a mum, I suppose, you bond with other mums over the washbasins). Anyway, she tossed back her hair, revealing her laminate, and to my astonishment I discovered that I'd been sharing poo moments with Martha Ladly, of Muffins and "Echo Beach" fame. Hmm. I'm all nostalgic now. Perhaps I need to go to a festival this year... 9:56 a.m. - 24.06.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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