Festival season is here and so far the weather has been pretty lenient.
Download, I understand, was a tad stormy at times, but
Glastonbury was blessed with sunshine the vast majority of the time.
Observe...
The British weather being what it is, such scenes can never be guaranteed. Every regular festival attendee will have an anecdote or two involving rain and mud and I am no exception. But, I am not here today to recount my part in the flash-flood of
Glastonbury 2005 (it
wasn't my fault, despite what anyone says).
My first, published short story (in 2009) was an adventure for
Paul Magrs's gin-quaffing time lady,
Iris Wildthyme. Iris is exactly the sort of person you could imagine running into, during the frazzled, small hours at
Shangri-La. It was obvious to me that the story should be set somewhere similar.
The resulting tale was entitled
Party Kill Accelerator! and here's how it opens...
~
It was a moment before dawn or the tail end of twilight and there was music. Iris shushed Panda. Through the staccato rhythm of the rain she could feel the distant bass rumble, a bank of sonic fog on the horizon. Panda felt it too, although it did little to engage his enthusiasm. Such was the uniform greyness of the earth and sky, it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Onwards they schlepped, toward the music, the mud and the incline conspiring against their advance.
Iris re-checked her instructions. Panda eyed this with disdain.
“Directions from the back of a cigarette packet and a hike through miles of oomska, Are you sure it wouldn’t have been more appropriate for me to wear a dinner jacket, Iris?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Not much further now, music’s getting louder.”
Panda adjusted his sowester. His yellow wellingtons looked grey now, the landscape seemingly contagious. Iris’s transparent mackintosh was leaking, soaking her leopard print outfit beneath. She decided to suffer this discomfort in silence, denying Panda the satisfaction.
They passed clusters of parked vehicles, all as grey as the landscape, drizzle making them indistinct, as though viewed through a badly tuned television. The music grew louder. Over the brow of the hill, a row of lights came into view, set along the top of an imposing steel fence. It stretched the length of the invisible horizon. Iris threw Panda a vindicated smile. Ahead, they spotted a flimsy, canvas gazebo, where a sturdy, bullet-headed figure loomed.
They approached the figure, a slab-faced man grasping a clipboard in his right hand, the little finger of which was missing. The three remaining knuckles were crudely tattooed with the word ‘Ron’.
“Tickets,” Ron murmured in a monotone.
“We’re on the guestlist, lovey. Iris Wildthyme.”
“Plus one,” added Panda.
“Who you guests of?” muttered Ron.
“Jimmy the Mandrill,” Iris confirmed.
The doorman flinched.
“That’s Mandrill as in ‘blue-faced monkey’,” she clarified.
Tilting his head to one side, Ron checked his clipboard.
“Jimmy… The… Mandrill..”
 |
| "Iris threw Panda a vindicated smile" |
“ZONA OSCURA FESTIVAL - ACCESS ALL AREAS – VIP - PANDA”
Panda turned the gold laminated lanyard over in his paw. Sheltering beneath the awning of a hot-dog stand, he watched the herds of bedraggled merry-makers shuffling through the slurry. People of every species staggered and splashed their way between tents and stalls, united in filth and inebriation. Iris was getting her bearings. “Right, we’re here…” She pointed to the map on her lanyard, “…and the VIP tent is here. So we need to go…”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, woman! That’s completely the other side of the site!” Panda’s exasperation had reached critical mass. “Enough is enough! I require a drink. Immediately.”
Iris held her hands up in mock surrender.
The nearest tent with a bar was ‘Madame Moiré’s Burlesque Escapade’. Inside was a suitably louche, satin draped haze of pheromones and smoke. They sat themselves at an empty table, near the front of the stage.
“So, who is this ‘Jimmy the Mandrill’ anyway?” Panda asked again.
“I told you,” said Iris.
“No. You’ve been incredibly vague. Why is he giving us VIP passes to the Zona Oscura Festival anyway?”
“I don’t know. He was showing off probably. He said he was a promoter. Everyone had had a few drinks.” She shrugged. “It was a party.”
“Well, if it was one tenth as ghastly as this place, then I’m glad I stayed at home to watch David Attenborough.”
There was a drum roll and a cymbal splash and a sultry voice from the PA.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for your delectation, please welcome to the stage, Ms Carmen Tranquil!”
The curtain parted and Panda beheld a vision.
Iris, conversely, saw a hefty lass in her smalls take to the stage and decided on a tactical retreat to the bar.
~
...and if you want to find what has Panda so entranced, you'll just have to check out
The Panda Book of Horror for the rest of the story.
Hopefully, I've captured some of the flavour the Great British Music Festival. It's an atmosphere which Iris describes as; 'Mardi Gras on the Western Front' (for is it not said;
Dulce et decorum est ager et inebriamini et saltatione*?)
Inspired to hit the fields this summer? So far, it looks like you'll need to pack your factor 30 along with your wellies. Whatever the weather, may the road rise with you...
*It is sweet and glorious to get drunk and dance in a field
