With nothing to do on Saturdays for nearly a
few weeks this is the story of one man’s lazy and
unimaginitive search for entertainment.
Are you bored at work?
Is your spirit being crushed by endless
hours of staring vacantly at a monitor?
Is the only thing you look forward to your
mate forwarding you some appalling jokes ?
Do you dread having to leave the womb-like
security of your scratcher of a morning and face the world?
Has every last drop of creativity been
milked from your soul by the corporate machine?
Are you compelled to desk-bound cuntery just
to pay your mortgage?
Can you not be arsed to do anything about
it?
Neither can I. However, I did manage to
summon up enough gumption to go to the Ozzfest at Donington,
“the spiritual home of heavy metal”. Now I’ve
never been a big Ozzy fan, all those hours of testing car horns
in a sound-proof booth are bound to leave anyone a couple of
pencils short of a cabbage and his voice reminds me of a cat
being bumraped. What he was for many years was a hugely
entertaining piss-head which nicely disguised a complete lack of
talent and musical ability. Now he’s the 21st
century Sylvania Waters and is milking it for all he’s
worth. He’s a role model for fuckwits, look at the Ozzfest
message board if you’re in any doubt. I’d give his
missus one though. Anyway, also on the bill were two of my
personal current favourite bands Tool and System Of A Down so
after an ultimately futile and almost very expensive attempt to
talk a mate into going I set off myself, armed only with a cheery
smile and enough alcohol to bring down a rugby team. Being too
old and weary to face fourteen hours of hilarity on the overnight
bus I took the short hop-skip-and-a-jump flight from Glasgow to
East Midlands with my pipe and slippers, then a cab ride to
Donington Park and a brisk hike across to the camp site. The
weather forecast had been predicting 60mph gales and rain fit to
frighten Noah so it was a pleasant surprise to find light breezes
and dryness. Heather the Weather had lied to me. Never mind
I’ll let her off this once if she leaves her husband and
comes round to clean the flat. With her pubic hair.
I like to think that I cut quite a dash
striding across the field, fashionably dressed in para boots,
kilt and South Park t-shirt, head freshly shaven and foreskin
newly de-cheesed. Certainly a few heads turned and nearly all of
them almost immediately gave voice to something that was to
become commonplace over the next two nights.
“Timmmmaaaaay!” Every year Reading has its
“Boooolllllloooooccccckkkkksssss!” and this year
Donington had its “Timmaaaaaaaaayyyy!”s and I was
wearing a Timmy shirt, which was very handy in case I forgot what
to shout. I found a likely spot to pitch camp, close enough to
the woods for emergency evacuation purposes but not close enough
to risk foulage if the wind got up, and threw up the tent.
Fortunately I didn’t throw up in the tent unlike one of my
neighbours who’s tent smelled like someone had just thrown
up in it due to the fact that someone had just thrown up in it.
The neighbours were a good bunch actually, a crowd of noisy
youngsters from Manchester who mostly passed out about half past
nine, some pierced Welsh, a couple who had evidently borrowed
Osama Bin Laden’s old tent and a Blackadder II impersonator
who was wandering about trying to find some wine for his missus.
So we sat about and had a sociable gas, drink and smoke for a
while. I was mildly taken aback at one point when a young lady
appeared and asked if she could spend the night in my tent. Was
this my rugged, manly charm working? Did she just love it up
‘er? Well maybe, but the main reason for her request turned
out to be that her own tent was full of fresh sick. She wanted to
bring four of her mates with her as well.
After a while it got a bit chilly sitting
about so I set off for a turn around the campsite with only a
bottle of Talisker to protect me from harm. The first lot of
humanity I met were a couple of Welshmen (the place was crawling
with them, the livestock markets must have been empty that
weekend) who kindly invited me to a party in their tent which was
fairly easy to find on account of it being the size of a wedding
marquee with a red dragon flag on top. Since there didn’t
appear to be anyone in it I said I might pop back later. A slight
debate followed when one of them advanced the fatuous opinion
that Jack Daniel’s is better than Scotch. Having proved him
wrong by proffering a swig of Skye’s finest I was treated to
a swally of some stale wee which is only fit for human
consumption when mixed with brown sugary water. Mmmmmmm. I
carried on around the perimeter, stopping briefly to enjoy an
altercation between between some of the camp guards, er I mean
stewards, and a group of happy-go-lucky campers who were
seemingly intent on arson.
“Put that fire out!”
“No!”
“Put it out!”
“Fuck off!”
“Put it out or you’ll get chucked
off the site.”
“We’re not doing any harm.”
“Put it out or we’ll kick your
fucking head in.”
“Cunts.”
Etc……
Further on there were some lights,
“Aha!” thinks I, “This’ll be where all the
action is.” Indeed it was if your idea of action is toilets,
a beer tent and a few catering vans. I bought a cardboard pint of
plastic lager and a polystyrene tray of nylon noodles in curry
sauce which looked like it had been scraped off the groundsheet
of my neighbours’ tent. Everything was cold, a good thing
for the beer, it meant you couldn’t taste it, not so good
for the noodles, half of which had dried out giving the
interesting sensation of eating dessicated twigs. Never eat
anything at festivals, it’s bad for you and it means you
have to go to the lavvy. Having washed the taste of the noodles
away with a drop of whisky I wandered on up to the edge of
civilisation and got talking to a tiny Glaswegian from Wales, his
Welsh friend and his Welsh friend’s Welsh girlfriend, also
from Wales. When I say talking I actually mean slurring
incoherently in the case of the wee man and making strange noises
in a language vaguely resembling English in the cases of his
pals. At this point we were approached by a small child who
wanted to know if we’d sell him some drugs. Apart from not
having any spare we’d have won first prize in the most
conspicuous dealers of the year competition – an 18 stone
Scotsman in a kilt, an 8 stone Scotsman in a state of exuberant
inebriation and two Welsh persons of indeterminate weight (though
my guess would be about 22 stone 7 the pair) in red, green and
white top hats. Why the young scamp thought we would have any
nefarious substances I don’t know. Perhaps it was because we
were standing next to the pipe & bong stall which had entered
into the spirit of Ozzfest by playing drum ‘n’ bass at
ear-splitting volume.
Next we wandered back to the beer tent for
some further refreshment and met some more Welsh. No, only
pulling your leg, it was actually a crowd of Scots. You could
tell they were Scots by the way they all had bottles of Buckfast
Tonic Wine which they were more than happy to share. One turned
out to be a kindred spirit, a season ticket holder at Firhill so
we entertained the admiring throng with a few choruses of
‘Hello, Hello, How Do You Do’, ‘We Hate Roman
Catholics’ and of course ‘Mary Fae Maryhill’. As
we meandered back towards the camp site with an enormous vat of
ketchup appropriated from a van by a Welshman we met a
bespectacled, skinny American youth who was personally
responsible for US foreign policy, NAFTA, corporate
globalisation, Vietnam, the Gulf War, the KKK, McDonalds, global
warming, Coca Cola, Kennedy, Jack Daniel’s, bombing millions
of innocent Afghans, cultural imperialism and having no sense of
irony. I should know, I read a Noam Chomsky book once. It’s
lucky he wasn’t Canadian because then he would have been
responsible for Nickelback. Round about this time I drained the
last of the Talisker and in a fit of bravado and
litter-loutishness chucked the bottle away.
Suddenly it was morning and I was in my
tent. I checked quickly to see that I still had all my clothes
on, or at least nearby. Yes. Injuries? Negative. Any recollection
of coming back last night? None whatsoever. I was later told that
I was carried back in the small hours which was an heroic effort
on somebody’s part. I then apparently denied all knowledge
of even owning a tent and was thrown into the nearest empty one
which, by the grace of Satan, happened to be mine.
A dayspring trip to the lavvy proved
fruitless which was a bit worrying because it meant that those
noodles were still festering away in my innards somewhere. On the
way back I acquired some herbal fudge from the world’s
grubbiest man which is the ideal thing at that time of day as
part of a healthy and nutritious breakfast, it even had fruit in
it. Most of the neighbours were still under canvas when I got
back so I gubbed my morning Immodium, cracked open the Wine and
went for a walk to see what happened. What happened was a
whirling, half-naked dervish who spotted the Buckfast and
demanded a swig despite the fact that he’d plainly already
ingested enough stimulants to keep him awake through an entire
Radiohead album. It was the way he vibrated that gave it away as
he danced around the tents like the bastard offspring of a shaman
and a giant alarm clock. He half led and half followed me,
shouting all the way, up to the food stalls and then decided to
jump the queue to get into the gig which was already massive at a
quarter to eight. Being easily embarrassed and too polite to push
in I left him to it, heartlessly ignoring his pleas for me to go
back and give him drink.
Back at the tent I heard the sound of music,
well Slayer, and went and joined in the congregation that had
gathered round what would have been a campfire if the hi-vis
gestapo weren’t about. I’d finished my Tonic so I
retrieved the Jagermeister from the rucksack and soon it was
being passed round along with questionable cigarettes and a five
gallon plastic container of snakebite made from that cider that
makes you go blind. One guy emerged from his tent clearly having
just powdered his nose which led to a discussion on putting
things up yer hooter that you really shouldn’t. I believe it
was myself who mentioned snorting vodka and moments later out
came a bottle of Grant’s and a teaspoon. Having watched a
couple of other people try it and not writhe about in agony too
much I decided to give it a try. It’s an experience I’d
highly recommend to anyone who has an overwhelming unfulfilled
desire to know what it feels like to be shot in the face but
doesn’t want to risk lead poisoning. The initial pain is
absolutely astonishing but after a few seconds it wears off and
leaves a very pleasant buzz and half of your head numb. That was
the weirdest bit, only one side of my head was fucked up. Pass
the teaspoon…
By this time it was half-past ten and only
half an hour until the gig started so off I went towards the
arena, deciding not to bother taking my hat as it was so grim.
There was no queue at the gate but a big crowd was already
inside. First stop the beer tent for ice-cold pishwater then to
find a good viewpoint for the first band. I like AntiProduct, any
band that sells their bodily fluids via their website can’t
be all that bad. Seriously folks you can buy spit, vomit, shite,
gentleman’s relish and even menses (only available the third
week of each month). In addition to that their singer had written
an article encouraging people to throw bottles of pish at him
because he was thirsty. He certainly got his wish and even stood
right out at the front of the stage to present an easier target,
though I’m not sure that all of the hundreds of flying
missiles contained urine. This was hardly surprising given that
their style of music is hardly Ozzfest material and your average
metalheads aren’t exactly known for their tolerance or
eclecticism. I thought they were great, especially the three
smashing burds.
Next up were Black Label Society so I went
for a wee wander barwards and came back for Mad Capsule Markets.
Having seen posters and such and listened to a couple of tracks
beforehand I was expecting some sort of futuristic, Manga-tastic
sort of show so I was slightly taken aback then when three
scruffy dwarves wandered onto the stage and picked up the
instruments. Must be the road crew. Wrong. What a fucking racket
they made, techno beats and squiggles combined with some very
violent guitars totally at odds with the munchkin-like cuteness
of the singer who had to read his between song patter
phonetically from a bit of paper. Again most of the crowd
didn’t seem to get it which was a pity for them.
Next up were Drowning Pool who I unfortunately missed due to
going for a slash and finding the bogs conveniently situated half a mile away
up a hill. I also missed Millencolin which was lucky, any band with ‘Colin’
in their name don’t deserve to be taken seriously. I went back towards
the stage for a bit of comic relief in the waif-like, painted and spookily contact-lensed
form of Cradle of Filth. It didn’t work really. Gothic horror metal should
be performed in a musty crypt or failing that a dingy club in the dead of night,
not in a muddy field in the middle of the afternoon. Inspired by their dreaded
wampire-istic bloodlust I went off to get some chips. Immaculate timing on my
part or God’s revenge on the unholy COF I’ll leave it up to you to
decide, but no sooner had I handed over £2.50 of my hard-earned for a dozen
or so cold chips than the heavens opened and it absolutely fucking lashed it
down. Rain, hail, sleet, snow, locusts, frogs, boils, first-born sons –
you name it. Fortunately I was able to hide under the canopy of the chip van
and smugly observe everyone else getting drenched whilst idly wondering what
they put in the mustard to make it that colour of yellow and stain your fingers
so you look like a 50-Woodbine-a-day man. The downpour also showed up a bit
of a drawback in the layout of the festival site. The main viewing area in front
of the stage was on a slight incline so the water mostly ran off it to the bottom
of the hill where the organisers had thoughtfully placed a pathway around the
perimeter which soon began to resemble the Mississippi in spate. The ‘catering
facilities’ and lavvies were on the other bank so it meant that if you
wanted food, drink or relief you had to wade through ankle-deep glaur or build
a raft. All of this commotion meant I missed the Lostprophets, who apparently
are Wales’ answer to being any good, so I made my way towards the top of
the hill for Slayer. They’ve never been high on my list of top bands but
they certainly livened up a somewhat wet and cold crowd. ‘Angel Of Death’
and ‘South Of Heaven’ are sure-fire crowd pleasers (at Ozzfest anyway,
maybe not in civilised society) and Kerry King is the scariest-looking motherfucker
in Christendom. Shaved head, big beard, tattoos… oh.
“More beer!” was the cry so I went in search of even
higher ground and a refreshment tent. I emerged carrying two pints of sub-zero
catsquirt and was headed towards the stage to watch System Of A Down when I
was unexpectedly accosted by a girl. No, really. I say accosted, assaulted is
probably more accurate. She grabbed my arm and refused to let go, I had bruises
to prove it. Once I was convinced that she wasn’t trying to steal my drink
and had fought back the impulse to leg it I looked her up and down and was astonished
to find that she was actually very attractive. No, really. Long black hair,
the most beautiful hazel eyes, skin like prairie dog leather and a saucy foreign
accent. She turned out to be Spanish, well Basque actually, and told me how
she loved my ‘skirt’ and my accent which she correctly picked as Glasgow,
even though I’ve never thought it was that strong. Of course I immediately
started talking like Rab C. Nesbitt. I supposed that there were worse ways to
spend an hour on a Saturday afternoon than watching one of your favourite bands
with a beer in each hand and a dusky maiden rubbing her breasts against you
and feeling your arse (“you aren’t wearing any underwear are you?”
– if I tried that I’d get arrested). This latter behaviour was most
distracting and could have led to an involuntary show of strength if I hadn’t
taken the sensible precaution of drinking heavily for eleven hours beforehand.
Forward planning you see, it’s essential, a sporran full of loose change
helps as well. Since I couldn’t understand half of what she was saying
I settled for smiling pleasantly/grinning inanely whilst gazing into those lovely
eyes and wondering what would happen if I put my hand up her jumper. I gathered
that she was a musician and chipped in some helpful comments about SOAD’s
guitarist’s use of unusual scales and phrasing, the Dead Kennedys and Puccini.
I know how to impress the chicks I can tell you. I believe I may also have invited
her to come and stay in Glasgow and proposed marriage. I can’t for the
life of me remember her name though, her and her pal had christened me Timmy
after clocking me the night before strolling, staggering, crawling or being
carried about. I really hope she played the cello, in the nude.
When System Of A Down had finished, they
were fan-cocking-tastic by the way, I excused myself and made my
own personal contribution to the worsening mud problem by
whazzing against a nearby fence. Well, it was miles to the
toilets and there wasn’t a taxi to be had for love nor
money. Via the bar tent back to where the Spanish Inquisition
were and I found my new girlfriend talking to another man! How
dare she, we were engaged! Never mind, I got talking to her pal
who I remember very little about other than she was also Spanish,
was wearing a red shirt, had some sort of facial piercing and was
appalled at my drinking habits after having met me just over an
hour previously. The two of them then set off on a
bladder-emptying-refilling exercise, leaving me with strict
instructions to stay put and not move til they got back. I
wandered off. What would I want with a gorgeous Basque girl
anyway? I’ve been monogamous for eight and a half years
(well technically thirty-one and a half but who’s counting),
I wouldn’t know what to do with one. Domestic bliss has
blunted my already fairly dull seduction technique.
Gorgeous Basque Burd With Lovely Eyes: I
love your skirt and your accent, would you like to come back to
my tent and make love?
Big Ash: Sssshhhhh, I’m trying to watch
this.
GBBWLE: Please, I will satisfy you orally.
BA: Look, I don’t talk all the way
through your soap operas.
GBBWLE: I’ll do anything you want, even
up the Morgan Stanley.
BA: I’m warning you, just be quiet for
once in your life.
GBBWLE: My friend wants to join in as well.
BA: Now you’re just being totally
un-fucking-reasonable, I’m off to the pub.
Exit BA pursued by sighs of disappointment
and drying gussets.
That’s what would’ve happened,
honestly.
Apart from all that Tool were coming on and,
as well as being a particular favourite of mine, their music
isn’t really very suitable for pitching woo to.
“Show me that you love me and we belong
together, relax, turn round and take my hand” may sound
romantic at first but if I tell you that that particular lyric is
taken from a song entitled ‘Stinkfist’ it puts a
slightly different slant on things. Tool live are quite an
experience. As a band they’re not much to look at but the
multimedia show on the giant screens is amazing and the intensity
of the music pretty much makes Slayer sound like Brotherhood Of
Man. Brutal, powerful and hard yet intelligent, thoughtful and
occasionally beautiful. Just like me really.
More in hope than expectation I went back to
where I’d been molested earlier on but needless to say there
was no sign of anything even vaguely resembling a Basque.
However, I was approached by a strange, anoraked creature that
brought to mind those smelly, little monk-like things from Star
Wars that kidnap droids and live in a large skip. I can’t
remember what they’re called, I haven’t seen it since
about 1980 and it’s not much of a film anyway. The creature
turned out to be a bloke from the deep north of Scotland and of a
type I’ve met before on Tartan Army trips. These people live
in crofts miles from anywhere and eat tourists and only leave for
football, gigs or occasionally their own funerals. Lots of
people spend lots of money on lots of chemicals to try and
achieve that sort of pop-eyed, stare-right-through-you lunatic
intensity. It doesn’t work, only decades of in-breeding and
raw meat can have that effect. After being quietly barked at for
a few minutes I ran away.
Last, but certainly not least, on the bill
was the man himself, Ozzy. I was about half-way back in a field
which by now resembled the Somme chatting to some guy who looked
like he should be on a golf course when he came on. The intro was
superb, a piss-take of various celebs on the video screens, he
looks good in drag I must say. After that I was a bit
underwhelmed, the wind had got up and blew most of the sound away
and I was starting to feel a bit queasy. I remember remarking to
my golfing buddy that I thought I might have caught the sun a
bit, he agreed. Shortly after that I was overcome with a fit of
violent shivering no doubt caused by a combination of cold,
sun-stroke, dehydration, noodles, alcohol, cannabis,
amphetamines, scrapie, trench head, athlete’s groin,
wanker’s cramp, Saturday Night Palsy, scabby dog disease,
the screaming willies, cirrhosis of the scrotum, sodomiser’s
elbow, halitosis, the gush, I Love You Virus, the strokes,
autism, gluey eye, measles, mumps, rubella, Cuthbert, Dibble and
Grub. The only known treatment for this is to retreat to your
tent, put on every item of clothing you have with you, wrap
yourself in a sleeping bag and wish you were dead. Jagermeister
helps a lot with the symptoms but isn’t much of a cure.
At one point during the night I remember
rubbing my head and finding my hand was wet afterwards. I
panicked momentarily in case it was blood but I couldn’t see
anything so I assumed I was okay. In the morning I woke up and
was somewhat taken aback to find most of my scalp lying in
semi-liquid form on the rucksack that I’d been using as a
pillow. Either a wandering band of Apaches had caught me unawares
or I had indeed caught the sun. As soon as I touched my head more
skin fell off and a dribble of pus ran down my forehead into my
eye. Savlon is essential stuff for extended periods of
kilt-wearing due to the dangers of chapping which can lead to
galloping crotch rot. It was ideal for my head as well and I must
say that applying it was one of the least amusing things I’d
done in a while. The dead skin sort of rolled itself into stringy
bits and came off in my hands. I tried putting my hat on but it
was too painful.
Oh well, not much else to do but get the
tent down and head for the airport. Wouldn’t you know it, as
soon as I took the poles out it started pouring. Nevertheless I
pressed on and set off to walk the three or so miles to East
Midlands. The rain didn’t let up the entire way, fortunately
it cleaned the remaining scalp-porridge off the rucksack (which
was borrowed) but unfortunately it also made all the Savlon on my
head run down my face, no doubt giving me the appearance of some
kind of sumo-geisha. I arrived at the airport at about 10am,
great, only six and a half hours til the flight and, more
importantly, two and a half until the bar opened. In the meantime
I bought some aftersun from a very sympathetic old trout in Boots
and went to try and repair my wounded skull. When I got into the
men’s room I was shocked to discover that my entire head was
a striking shade of scarlet apart from where my sunglasses had
been. The cream helped a lot though so I went and stocked up on
lucozade and settled down to wait on a seat across from the
airport hairdressers’ shop. No, I don’t know why an
airport needs a hairdresser. I also don’t know why two
different security guards and a policeman asked me what I was
doing in the space of an hour, perhaps I looked shifty. It was
extremely difficult not to be sarcastic but I restrained myself
heroically. It’s very difficult killing time when
you’re too hungover to read and have the fear too badly to
sleep. I settled for mopping up the pus that was still coming out
of my head at an alarming rate and glaring at passers-by.
After an eternity it was 12:30 and I was
able to enjoy the luxury of a pint of Guinness (after two days of
Carling) and veg out in front of Sky Sports, aaahhhhh. My peace
and quiet was rudely interupted by three very drunk Dutchmen
who’d also been at Ozzfest and insisted on buying me drink.
One of them had an inflatable guitar which he used to accompany
his pal who gave a fine rendition of the Bad News song
‘Drink Til I Die’. Now this song contains the line
“Give me another drink Mr. Bartender, If you don't I'm gonna
stick yer dick in a blender”. In fact that was the only line
that his version contained, either it was the only line he knew
or it was some sort of Dutch remix. After the utterly last and
final call for their flight had been announced over the PA they
went off to check in.
Just after they left an altogether more
appealling pair of festival goers came into the bar. They were
both female and well over six foot and were similarly clad in
knee-high platform boots, fishnets, mini-skirts and, I kid you
not, Second World War military jackets and caps. Sort of like a
cross between Lily Savage and Erwin Rommel. They must have been
sisters, one had black hair, the other shocking pink and both had
Fife accents and faces you could chop logs with. I was torn
between quiet ogling and an almost irresistable urge to stand up
on a table and sing “It’s springtime for Hitler and
Germany!”. I looked around but couldn’t see Gene Wilder
or Zero Mostel anywhere and so just kept quiet. “Don’t
be stoopid be a smarty, come and join the Nazi party!”
Laugh? I would have done if my face hadn’t been so sore.
A few more hours later my clothes were
almost dry and it was finally it was time for the flight home. As
always I set off the metal detector and had to be frisked but
unusually this time security insisted on checking my boots which
was a bit awkward as I was still plastered in mud from the knees
down. I had to take my boots off, which caused a bit of a stink,
and put them through the x-ray machine. A similar thing had
happened on the way down but instead of putting them through the
x-ray they’d taken a swab with a sponge which then went into
an explosives detector machine. This was actually quite handy as
it cleaned off the stray splashes of urine. After a brief scare
when the fire alarm went off in the departure lounge (I think my
head set it off) I boarded the BMI stuka-conversion and basked
under the cooling jet of the air-conditioning which actually made
me forget about my head for a bit. This was a mistake. When I
de-stukaed at Glasgow and went into the gents’ I was
appalled to discover that the AC on the plane had dried the pus
on my scalp into little yellow, crystalline mounds like tiny
piles of fool’s gold all over my napper. How nice. That did
it, bunnet on til I got home. The taxi driver who took me up the
road turned out to be a Tool fan so I had to describe their set
in great detail before he’d let me out. I got in the door,
fell into bed and slept like the dead. After I’d had a wank,
obviously.
In summary then…
Tiiiiimmmmmaaaaaayyyyyy!
Head Update: after a day’s intensive
treatment with E45 cream I spent a gleeful evening peeling sheets
of dead skin off my scalp. It was just like that glue you got at
primary school, the white stuff that came in bottles with a brush
attached to the lid and which went clear when you put it on your
hands. Lovely.
Coming soon:
Things To Do In The Close-Season, Part 2
– Watching the World Cup