“Watch out on the main stage!”
A month or two ago the Metro (free paper you can pick up on the bus to anyone from outside the UK or who has an irrational fear of public transport) featured the results of a survey on what age people should give things up, and very enlightening it was. I know that it is now 11 years too late for me to start getting tattoos. It also informed me that I should have stopped going to music festivals when I was 41. That’s unfortunate as at the ripe old age of 44 I already have my coach ticket to Blackpool, my B & B booked and my ticket for Rebellion. The assumption of the article is that if you do this when you’re past the appropriate age it’s in fact a sad and desperate attempt to recapture your youth. This is news to me as my youth didn’t generally involve going to see punk bands, but did involve me gazing out of windows listening to Echo & The Bunnymen, and writing very bad poetry. I may still play Porcupine now and again but otherwise why would I want to recapture that? Perhaps some of us go to festivals because we ENJOY MUSIC! It’s just possible.
Yes it’s my annual punk rock holiday. As usual, rather than boring Mrs wyngatecarpenter this is my annual write-up of the weekend, the good, the bad, the “would have been a bit better if they’d turned the vocals up”, the absurd.
The 'Spill 