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Festivals are a bit like Marmite

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I wrote all this out yesterday but them somehow managed to delete it during the editing process.  Laptop operator ineptitude, clearly!

In the words of King George VI;  “Fuck, fuck, bugger, fuckity fuck fuck, shit, bugger and tits!”

I forget what the post was about to be honest.  I’ve had a sleep since then.  Basically it was about my having watched Glastonbury again this year from the sanctuary of my own bed.  Hot and cold water laid on and lavatory facilities to hand that don’t involve an arduous hike through fields and a guy ropes.
I’ve yet to attend Glastonbury and every year I say I will go –  but then can’t be arsed. 

Oh my Christ! Feck that!

Oh my Christ! Feck that!

No stranger to the hygiene-impaired portaloo, I’ve attended a few festies in my time.  Indeed the childerbeast have pretty much been to at least one a summer, either as crew or punters for the past 6 years, as my regular readers will know.  We missed out last year but our ‘living space’ will be out in force this summer.  Fairy-light bedecked and camping stove fired up to turbo.  I will do my usual and hate it the first night and swear I will never attend one again.  Then I will quickly turn feral and start free-dancing in a yurt with a yoga guru called Tabby or Tristan.  The childerbeast will beg to go to bed and I will berate them for being dull and make them skank in the reggae tent in their pyjamas till the wee small hours or watch inappropriate films, accompanied by weird men playing tunes on old bicycle parts.  I shall openly discuss buying a camper van and retiring from the world to travel the countryside, home-schooling my children.   This idea will last approximately 48 hours and then I will recover my sleep patterns and have detoxed and normal stagnant reality will resume anew and I will pack away my poncho and hat for another year.

My girls have seen some sights bless them (and I don’t just mean their mother dressed as a witch, still mashed up on tequila, laid prone in the tent doorway.)  I think taking them to music festivals (and yes I do screen them from the unnecessary sights) will make them more tolerant and well-rounded individuals as they grow up.  Either that, or they’ll end up as nutty as their mother – it could go either way…

Before long they too will be going to these things on their own and falling asleep in an empty marquee then waking up in the full throes of someone’s set, surrounded by people dancing around them.*

I think the festival appeals to my eclectic taste in fashion.  If I could get away with the short shorts, wellies and poncho combo every day at work, I probably would.  Generally, Management & the Inspectors take a dim view of that kind of thing though, so I try to make an effort.  Went in my slackydaks today as I was out on a sports thing.  It’s been a while – I felt a bit like I was at work in my pyjamas to be honest.  I may not have gone into work wearing them had I known we weren’t setting off until 11:30 and the school inspector was in!  She didn’t see me so it was okay!

Meanwhile, do enjoy some snaps of festivals past…

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Capacity crowd at 0900hrs

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charging up my phone via pedal power

 

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Waiting for DJ Yoda

  

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Don’t ask….

 

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Mini Crew Members

Mini Crew Members

 

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* It was 1996, before I had children, s0 no need to call Childline!

 

 

 

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About TheDHW

Not loathed by totally everyone so that's good right?

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