Last weekend saw my inaugural visit to a music festival. It has only took six decades but the wait was well worth it, even the ninety minutes it took to get from the venue entrance to my camper van pitch.
If there is a sun god, he also had tickets to the musical clambake. His omnipresence augmenting attendee exhilaration levels last weekend, be they spending one or three nights at Childerley Orchard, Cambridgeshire.
My partner in crime for the event was my Ossett beau Sarah. Her almost constant vape smoke providing much needed shelter from the solar rays. I don’t know the actual sun protection factor of electronic cigarette mist (if it indeed has any), however they were the only clouds on show during our 72 hours ‘darn sarf.’
Sarah, who appeared to be sponsored by Kumala wine for the weekend, is a big dance music fan. And with a festival cast list including Lionel Richie, Kool and the Gang, Billy Ocean, Odyssey and Sophie Ellis-Bextor, she was in seventh heaven.
In fact, she was so overawed at proceedings, while watching Lionel Richie she turned to me and said “Will you go get me a wine, Gaz?… I’m bleeding parched you old b*****d!”
Incidentally, I hope I’m not painting a picture of my West Yorkshire squeeze being an old soak. She hasn’t got a drink problem… No, Sarah never gets so pissed she can’t find her well-stocked wine fridge… When I say wine fridge, it’s more the size off a refrigerated morgue unit.
Seriously, though, with constant sunshine, an abundance of good music, a buoyant atmosphere, along with the fact I taken my own toilet, my first festival tarry left me wanting more… Even the two-and-a-half-hour journey back listening to Sarah’s Love Island anecdotes couldn’t dampen my effervescent spirits.
Amongst the camping accessories we took were two recently purchased festival flags. The ensigns in question a Strachan coat of arms and a white rose of Yorkshire. Banners which proudly fluttered over Cambridgeshire like the cloth emblems which accompanied Richard the Lionheart’s 12th century crusades.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making some misguided vainglorious statement I am like the then English king… Although, I am often congratulated on my crown, sceptre and orbs… No, the comparison with my flags and Richard I’s ensigns was due to the manner with which they fluttered. That is, with a bending flagpole; subsequently, marking ‘my turf’ with more pronounced banner oscillation.
Upon seeing the flags, someone passing by the camper felt moved to ask me “Is that your family coat of arms?”
“Yes buddy.” I responded politely.
“I am not called Buddy.” came the (man not called Buddy’s) reply.
“No, I know you are not called Buddy… It’s an expression… Meaning friend.”
“Well, you didn’t definitely know, did you?… You didn’t know my name!… For all you knew I could have been called Buddy!” he exclaimed firmly.
“True… But my use of buddy was with a lower case ‘b’ …. Meaning mate… I’d not randomly guessed your moniker was Buddy!”
“How was I supposed to know which case was used for the first letter of buddy?!… It was a verbal exchange not on paper!” the passer-by continued; seemingingly not wanting to let this drop.
“Well, I assumed you would know when a stranger referred to you as buddy, they weren’t trying to guess your name… I could have just as easily said mate instead of buddy.” I explained with a weary sigh.
“Well, that would have been as equally inappropriate.” the fella continued.
“What do you mean?!”
“Well, I am not your mate for a start… You’re a stranger… For all I know, you could be a serial killer!” he bleated.
“I know you are not my mate… Like buddy, it’s an expression of warmth towards your audience.” I chuntered back; knowing who my next victim would be if I was a serial killer.
“So which family coat of arms is that then?!” the bloke (not called Buddy) inquired.
Pointing at the name Strachan, which was clearly written on the bottom of the ensign, I responded tersely “Strachan.”
“Is that your surname then?!” the fella continued.
“Well, yeah!… Why would I put another clan’s coat of arms up?” I asked, perplexed at the idiocy of the question… Sarah, at this juncture, sat adjacent to me in a deckchair.
“Well, I don’t know… You might be called Robertson, for example, and not have been able to get that coat of arms on a flag.” he responded inexplicably.
“If I was called Robertson, and could get that family ensign, why would I put another random Scottish coat of arms up?!”I snapped, my patience finally running out.
“I tell you what, you Scots are a bad-tempered bunch, aren’t you ?!” the passer-by chuntered, prior to wandering off towards the festival stages.
As he disappeared into the distance I turned towards Sarah, exasperatedly commenting “Bloody hell, that was hard work!”
Sarah paused a moment prior to proffering “He’s got a point though, Gaz… You are a right miserable b*****d!!”
Leave a Reply