I’m not really sure where to begin. It started sitting on the lawn on a beautifully sunny Melbourne afternoon with a beer and the most fabulous $8 hotdog I’ve ever eaten, passing critique on Strange Talk and absorbing the intoxicating festival atmosphere. It went steadily downhill from there.
For a start, drunken 18 to 21 year olds are feral little parasites. Throwing their garbage everywhere, pissing into cups and bottles, blowing their nasty cigarette/weed smoke everywhere and vomiting under trees. This is the botanical gardens! Melbourne’s iconic botanical gardens, and these bastard rodents are defiling it at every turn. Why are girls wearing floral dresses and high-waisted mini-shorts coupled with hiking boots? (Yes, we did this in the 90’s. Shut up.) And why do boys have these ridiculous one sided fringes plastered down their cheek with moly grease? Why are all these children so stupid and ugly?
I was wearing a “Say no to porcelain” badge, which I can guarantee is only funny and relevant to anyone who works at my company. A bikini-clad 20 year old with an obviously pregnancy-ravaged body pawed at me during Washington’s performance, slurring “that badge is aaaawesome! I’ll give you five bucks for it! It’s so retro!” I just smiled politely and tried to ignore the skin tent on her belly flapping against the buttons of her micro shorts.
Nikki (my adopted 19 year old, see previous post) and I paid an extra $60 for the More Expensive ticket, which afforded us the luxury of a garden area with 32 additional toilets, another bar and an overpriced calamari stand. Overall this was a great decision (throughout the day there was always a queue of at least 50 squirming girls at the commoner toilets), except our loos turned out to be unisex. Every time I reefed open the door on a ‘vacant’ stall, there’d be some dude there with his wang in his hand. I lost my cool after the fifteenth identical incident and shrieked at some poor emo kid: “Were you raised in a f**** barn? Lock the door when you piss, you grotty asshole!” Nikki, the music festival veteran, was amused at my antics. She was especially tickled when I refused to drop my empty can of G & T onto the ground during Kele’s set, even though the ground was already littered with thousands of empty cans, bottles and other matter of which I didn’t particularly want a close up view. That said, she followed my example and secreted her own empty can into her purse when she’d finished, so I felt mildly vindicated.
We left before Groove Armada hit the stage at the end of the night, partly because we were disillusioned by Missy Elliot’s abysmal performance, but mostly because Nikki could sense I was about to start biting kids’ faces off. We managed to fit in a few acts throughout the day however:
Streetparty vs. Swick – No idea who they were, but there were African beats and I could’ve shaken my groove thang all day.
Darwin Deez – Can’t sing to save himself, but the performance is cute as a bug. So much happy.
Kele – Great stage presence. Bloc Party songs went down better than his own efforts, sadly.
Washington – Brilliant. Woman can sang. And play. And stomp her feet on the stage so hard she probably has shin splints.
Uffie – Bland, insipid and overrated.
If ever I express the urge to attend another music festival, kindly send me a link to this post and point me in the direction of a 5 star bed and breakfast in the Yarra Valley instead. Ta.