KID SHIRT

Friday, June 27, 2008

GLASTONBURY FESTIVAL CAN FUCK OFF (AGAIN)

Well, the first ketamine over-doses arrived last night (thurs).

For those of you that don't have a clue what I'm talking about: I'd better explain that we only live 15-20 minutes drive from Glastonbury Festival (well, Pilton, actually; 'cos that's where it's actually held, not Glastonbury Town itself...), which for the benefit of non-UK-ers is the biggest 'rock' fest. in Britain (am I right in saying that?).

As a result, our local hospital tends to take the brunt of the festival casualties. And, so it was, that the first ketamine overdoses were ferried in on thursday evening, and the festival hadn't even started yet.

What usually happens is that if they crawl out of their k-hole without the need for serious psychological counselling or social services back-up, then there's a minibus service that ferries them back to the festival so they can catch the end of James Blunt's set, courtesy of Yeovil's council-tax payers. Sorry if I sound like an outraged Daily Mail reader here, but it's not like this is a big town, yet our local infra-structure is expected to support an influx of 130,000-150,000 people into the area (the population of Yeovil and its surrounds is, what? 30,000+). Due to local council politics all the money goes to Taunton (cos that's where the supercouncil is based), despite the fact that most of the work is based in Yeovil, so they get a hospital waaaaay bigger than ours, a proper shopping-centre, a motorway, etc, etc. And we get the walking dead overspill from Glastonbury...

The weekend-warrior and pretend-hippy drug-binge-ers and the food poisoning and the several dozen broken ankles and legs courtesy of drunken car-salesmen and estate-agents from Woking who slipped in the mud after visiting the cider-bus.

I wouldn't mind, but Pilton's a corporate shite fest. these days. They dish out tickets to middle-management dickheads as incentives/prizes/jollies like it was fucking Wimbledon or the Rugby Finals. And this year's line-up was spectactularly bad, even by Eavis' lame-ass standards. Three days spent under the same sky as the cream of manufactured indie-bullshit and a couple of 'classic rock' acts, plus the chance to eat at any one of 300 identikit ethnic-food franchaises and recharge yr phone on site! I wouldn't even write about the bloody thing, but if you live dn here you can't avoid the fall-out or, in fact, partially paying for the festival. Good ol' Glasto -! Fuck off...

Last time round a bunch of posh private-school birds wound up in our hospital on the thurs or the fri after necking too much K & E, and they were barely out of their comas before they started demanding private side-rooms because they didn't like being on a public ward - there were too many old people either side of them, apparently, and they didn't like it...no difference from the fest. then, I woulda thought - no matter where you camp there's too many old people either side of you...

Still, the line-up's soooo fucking dreadful that I'm not surprised people neck horse-tranqs and disassociative anaesthetics 15 minutes after they arrive on site...

A few years back, they found this Welshie sat in a ditch eating his own shit (nothing new there, then) a week after the festival had finished...the guy had suffered some drug-fuelled mental implosion so he ended up in our hospital while they put plasters on what was left of his brain. He had his own private room as he was suffering from severe delusions and was, uh, non-social: he smeared his own crap on the walls and stored his wee in jam-jars on the windowsill, and then covered the windows in butter cos he though there was going to be a nuclear attack. Unsurprisingly, the Welsh Social Services didn't want him, cos it would cost them too much money to feed and house him...and his family didn't want him back cos he'd done this sort of thing before...so he ended up stuck here being nursed for several months til his schizophrenia was sufficiently under control that Newport Council would have him back. The Mean-fiddler Organisation now owns 39% of the festival. Vince Powell sold his share in the organisation a couple years back for a lorra, lorra money (He wanted some new challenges, apparently) - I was gonna suggest that him and Eavis and the curent Mean Fiddler's board should pay next year's council-tax bill for us. You know, as a gesture...

It's not like all the big money being sprayed around is even filtering into the local economy - even the drug-dealers are out-of-towners lol - so maybe we should introduce a Local festival Tariff for festival-goers, or better yet: organise a mob of flintlock-armed highwayman to rob all the Cockney Spacevans and People-Carriers using the A37, then we could retreat to the Rifleman's Arms and burn a wicker-man in peace.

If you think this sounds like the ramblings of a sour old man - then you're probably right. But, at least I'm consistant - I've hated it for some years now, unlike the bandwagon-jumping "ain't as good as it used to be" brigade.

When everyone else stops going in 5 years time, then I'll start going again.

SATAN'S BIMBOS

Just been nibblin' on a couple of Bimbos...



Actually, they were pretty foul, I have to say. No more Bimbo's for me!

Which reminds me: my good friend Professor Christopher Giles, renowned Chaos Mathematician (actually, gimme a Chaos Mathematician over a Chaos Magician any day! He could take Alan Moore and Grant Morrison in an algorithmic showdown with one hand tied behind his back - easy! ) and International Pipe-Smoker of the Year, 1997, sent me this photo a few weeks back of a bottle of Satan Lager (actually, Satan Gold...)