Today Merriol dragged me to a wet and muddy field infested with midges to partake in the Torlundy Festival, a local Glastonbury wannabee that didn't have any of the things that would make Glastonbury at all bearable as an experience. In fact it had fuck all exept a lot of people camping and several empty tents with ear bleedingly loud techno tosh pumping out of them. Inside a beer tent a line of ranting poets battled against the background noise to witter on about 'Long Nights of the Soul' and other bilge. But mostly it was camping. Lots of camping. I hate camping. I mean HATE camping. Really really hate it. 'Camping' is one of the seven circles of hell. Festivals are camping with lots of noise, and drunks, and stoners falling on you, and picking fights with each other ( and you ) and saving the planet by driving all over it in converted fume belching old ambulances and cutting down trees to have fires.
Fuck that.
Luckily we weren't planning on staying overnight, because the mood of rebellious "I-fucking-hate-this-and-I-want-to-go-home-NOW!" that oozed out my every pore would have bought down even the most hardened hedonistic reveller.
Tonight, I think I have just lost two hours work on the thing I am writing. I keep getting a Save error when I try to close which means I may have lost it all. I don't know. I don't want to look.
This has not been one of the better days of my life.
Fuck that.
Luckily we weren't planning on staying overnight, because the mood of rebellious "I-fucking-hate-this-and-I-want-to-go-home-NOW!" that oozed out my every pore would have bought down even the most hardened hedonistic reveller.
Tonight, I think I have just lost two hours work on the thing I am writing. I keep getting a Save error when I try to close which means I may have lost it all. I don't know. I don't want to look.
This has not been one of the better days of my life.
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