The Field of Dreams

This morning l awoke to the loud barking of my phone. I was sweating copiously, my legs were cramped, my mouth as dry as a camel’s carcass, dribble crusted to my chin, and an unusually sharp and unfamiliar object poking me in my thigh.  A shopping trolley, as it disappointingly turns out. Completely disorientated, l could  feel  the sun beating through the window, no, four windows surrounding me, and l could just about make out muffled conversations and shuffling footsteps of crowds of people as they walked  right past me, totally unaware of my grimy, alcohol fumed existence. I groped for my phone, locating it in my jeans’ pocket. Clearly l had slept in my clothes last night. “We are up, are you coming for a cup of tea?” The question was met with a grunted response as l attempted a Houdini type escape from my sleeping bag. If Houdini had not had the use of one leg, one arm, and had had elephantitus in his remaining limbs. Eventually free and upright, the truth revealed itself – l had spent the night asleep in the backseat of a car. A fitting end to four days of debauchery that comprise a music festival, most of which had been conducted in the following manner:

7.30/8am : Awake to the sounds of teenage boys screaming obscenities to one another, and/or talking about enjoying sexual relations with each other’s mothers. Try and make sense of this as l was just about to kill a space-crocodile with my bare hands in my dream. Worry l have gone mad. Open one eye to reveal two friends in states of slumber, rolled up in sleeping bags, in my proximity. Roll over and promptly bounce off a half deflated air mattress and land on one of said friends. Receive insults and, as l crawl back onto my bed, wonder why my pillowcase is covered in neon pink smears. Crawl into tent porch in search of water to quench thirst. Can only find cider or warm flat diet coke. And a half eaten barbequed sausage. Gulp the coke. Hope the sausage is an illusion.

8.30/9am: Sunglasses hiding the hangover, stumble the half mile to the toilets and showers. Attempt to negotiate an obstacle course of guy ropes, tents, and empty beer cans. Silently curse the lively looking freaks who clearly have had a reasonable amount of alcohol and a full nights sleep, and who are leaping up the hill from the shower like new born lambs. Utter prayers to the God of Karma that they inadvertently step in a pile of teenage vomit and soil their shiny designer wellington boots.

9.10am: Armed with an armful of toilet paper, hold my breath as l tentatively enter one of the portable toilet blocks. Almost die. Close my eyes and try not to fall into the fetid cess-pit.

9.12am: Take deep heaving breaths as l cover my entire body in pink anti bacterial hand wash. Get some odd looks from passers by who clearly think l am having some drug induced hallucination. Wonder if this is how my pillow turned pink.

9.20am:  Stand naked in a dribbling shower amongst a variety of females in various states of undress. The pleasure of warm water and shampoo is close to heaven. Never want to leave. As l wash my face my hands come away covered in neon face paint. Mystery solved.

9.35am: Never underestimate the life giving qualities of clean pants and clean teeth.  I am reborn. For about 30 seconds.

10.30am: Make up applied (trowled), we trot to the breakfast tent. Free granola and yoghurt = 10 minutes of feeling the picture of health. Shoot disapproving looks to the male teenage colony to our left as they start supping beer and strutting around in their Batman pants.

11am: Open a can of cider.

11.30am: Open another can of cider.

11.50am: Illusion of health has rather dissipated. Reality of possible alcoholism and frightening reality.

12pm: Enter the main arena, all innocence. Maintain wide eyes as security pull two hip flasks of vodka from my wellington boots, and bladder of wine from my bra and two cans of cider from my pants. I claim that being from the West Country, smuggling is in my genes. They grab my shoulders and march me to the Samaritan tent.

1.30pm: Rejoin friends. Sit in sun and listen to music. Sup contraband cider.

1.45pm: Run into nearest tent as rain lashes the ground and God tries to make the point that cider drinking before 6pm is really not quite the thing.

3pm: Hunger strikes. Wander from stall to stall eyeing up organic, fresh, tasty morsels, drooling slightly. However, eat a bag of six doughnuts , freshly fried and rolled in sugar. Wash down with cider.

8pm: As night falls, so do the levels of illegal alcohol. Become the Ray Mears of festival survival by creating ever more flamboyant cocktails. Who knew sour Haribo could turn rose wine into a palatable drink?

11pm: Make lots of new friends in the dark. Slather them in neon face paint. Steal their rum. Drink it neat. Retch and contort as if someone is exorcising a demon from our cider-riddled bodies.

11.30pm: As the cold air seeps into bones, run to the most packed tent and squeeze into the middle of drug addled sweaty bodies. Shout unintelligibly to each other. Get tempted to buy a glow stick and a pair of furry boots. Wonder if this is appropriate attire for ladies post 30.

11.35pm: Jump about in furry boots, a tutu and wave my glow stick vigorously, as if trying to communicate to the DJ via semaphore.

12am: Evicted from dance tent by bouncers. Apparently climbing the struts and attempting to fly using giant helium balloons is one step too far.

12.05am: Silent disco. Dance to my own beat and sing at the top of my voice. Close my eyes and revel in the music.

12.10am: Open eyes and realise l have cleared the area.

3am: Stumble back up the hill. Lose own tent. Find many similar tents. Find lots of irate tent owners.

3.30am: Fall through tent door. Throw boots off and munch on the discarded sausage. Eat some toothpaste and pass out to the stomach rumbling beats of dub-step and the screams of teenagers.

And repeat.

Oh, and the car? Well....

3am (DAY 4): Find tent decimated by wind and/or hooligans. Poles broken. Resit temptation to beat the nearest teen with the tent pole and hand their carcass upon it as a warning to their peers. Instead use all Girl Guide knowledge to fix tent with neon face paint and empty cider cans. Fail, pick up car keys and spend an hour searching for car. Pass out in back seat.

Good times, good times.