Festivals - 900 acres/3.6km² of cunts

By UNCUNT staff

Stepping out of the UNCUNT offices into a beautiful summer's evening we spot some cunts milling around outside the train station - fouling up the place.

Observing their beards, vacant stares and shifty body language we naturally assume them to be rapists, gathering to attend a sex offenders rehabilitation session.

On closer inspection we note the tents, sleeping bags, acoustic guitars and crates of Stella. With a weary sigh, I realise it's that time of year again when every cunt in England (including you and everyone you know) gets their pills and weed supplies sorted and heads off to a festival (where you'll have a shit time, get robbed, sunburnt and trenchfooted then come home and pretend it was really, really good).

Festivals are bad places and we've got our fair share of horror stories. Only a few of which are printable.....
The first time I went to a festival (Reading '96) we put up our tent on what was effectively a river. It rained consistently all weekend until the river effectively became a lake. The only other abiding memory (apart from the overt sexuality of Kim Gordon's bass playing during Sonic Youth's feedback-heavy set) was not doing a poo for four days. Humans are not meant to go four days without doing a poo.

The second time I went to a festival (Reading '97) we accidentally put up our tent next to some Nu-Metal cunts who played obscure German goth-thrash-punk until 5am every night. We tried to fight back with our tape cassette of OK Computer, it didn't work. Our weed was stolen on the second day. Even though we'd hidden it under the tent.

The third time I went to a festival (Reading '98) I ended up with cocaine psychosis so bad that I didn't leave the tent for 36 hours. It was only a two man tent and it was a hot weekend. From around 3am on the Saturday night (following an immense headline show from the Fat Of The Land era Prodigy) until 3pm on the Monday afternoon (when many people had left and the farmers were coming back to reclaim their land) we were too freaked out to face the outside world. All we had was the interior of the tent, some coke, a bag of skunk, Irvine Welsh's hateful novel Filth and the sounds of Garbage and New Order in the distance playing the main stage. We've never really been the same again.
Every year at least one person dies of a drug overdose at a festival. It's normally at T in the Park (obviously), but if you're planning on overdosing somewhere this summer, there's an array of festivals to choose from. Here's a quick run-down of the options:

Bestival - Never been, never will.
Lovebox - Never been, keep saying I will, never will.
ATP - If I ever go to All Tomorrow's Parties, I'll know my life has gone off course. It's held at fucking Butlin's for christ's sake.
Wireless - Been several times. It's a fake festival. You can't have a proper festival in London. The local Kensington & Chelsea council ensure the decibel levels are really low, making for a shit sound. I did once see an M.I.A set in the dance tent with bass so loud you could feel your internal organs vibrating in your chest. That was good. But the general rule of thumb is don't go to any kind of event in Hyde Park. It will be shit and full of cunts.
Latitude - Looks good on paper. Is probably shit. Want to go one year. Never will.
Isle of Wight - Fuck off.
V Festival - Been about three times. Truly appalling festival. If you ever feel the need to surround yourself by Essex cunts of the very worst kind in a space too small for so many cunts, policed by cuntish Essex police at a site in the middle of cunting Essex, then go to V.
T in the Park - The best place to OD on smack. But be warned: if you're English you'll be savagely headbutted and robbed of your possessions "yer wee fookin' radge English cunt".
Download - For the past 10-15 minutes I've been sitting here trying to think of a place that fits my idea of hell more than the Download festival (formerly Monsters of Rock) at Castle Donnington. I can't think of one. If you can, please write in and let us know. But, if you like people with tattoo'd faces, if you like the guy in front of you's hair in your mouth, if you like sweaty men pissing in cups and chucking it in your face, if you like body piercings, if you like bands with singers that go "ROOOAAAAARARRGGGGHHHHH". Basically if you like the bands Machinehead, Slayer, Pantera or Sepultura. Then, this is the festival for you.
1-2-3-4 Records - In Shoreditch Park. If you have a shit haircut, a pair of skinny jeans, a stupid cap, silly NHS specs and a severe mental handicap you'll fit right in. This is the only festival UNCUNT regularly attends. Do the math(s).
Benicassim - Inebriated British cunts messing up a small part of Spain. As if it's not bad enough at home, we have to export our cuntishness abroad. Apologies to the people of Spain.
Hop Farm - Never been, never will.
Big Chill - Looks quite good. If a field full of pilled-up IT programmers on holiday is your cup of tea.
WOMAD - you can't really slag off WOMAD. That would be racist. On the upside: the line-up is usually brilliant. On the downside: the food stalls only serve chick peas.
Secret Garden Party - Never been, never will.
Glastonbury - Been to Glasto once. I was two years old. So that would have been 1982. My mother, a hippy at the time, tells me it was during the years when men would walk around naked - their hairy cocks and balls swinging in the wind. We went with the hippy-ish 'right on' Kentish Town nursery my mum took us too. Our nursery minibus had animals painted on the side. When we got to the festival approach road the van was nearly breaking down so, instead of queuing in the stationary traffic, my mother drove down the wrong side of the road right up to the entrance to the site. Taking one look at the animal-painted minibus and the assortment of kids, feminists, hippies and lesbians inside, the security guards manning the gate assumed we were some kind of festival act and ushered us all in without paying. Cash back. Those were the innocent days of Glasto. Those days carried on right up to about 1997-ish. Before they erected fences, thousands of people would just pile in for free. Now it's a festival charging £180 a ticket, requiring photo ID and pre-registration six months in advance. It is a huge money spinner exclusively aimed and marketed at affluent, middle class cunts who like Elbow, Flaming Lips and Muse. Oh, and there's mud. Lots of fucking mud.
Reading Festival - The last time I went to Reading I ended up scaling two 30 foot fences to escape the sound of Razorlight on the main stage. I'm never going back. Ever.




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