Kendal Called, I Wish I Never Answered, Episode 2: The Whisky Cats, Balloons and Fear & Loathing in the Comedy Tent.

After a terrible night of non-sleep, I dragged myself shivering and grumbling out of the tent and into the brutal reality of a festival campsite, at 6:30am.
It had been raining for most of the night, so as you can imagine, things were a bit grubby. I wandered off for a pee. Sadly there were no female genitalia on display. I could've done with cheering up.

As I wound my way back to the tent (I decided to go the long way back so I could have a little walk round the rest of the camp) I gradually saw more and more people rising. Just ordinary people, going about their early morning routines. Bastards. I bet they all had a lovely sleep with sleeping bags.

I got back to my tent kicked my boots off and went inside, where I sat, eating a tinned "All day breakfast".
This monstrosity of canned catering is nothing short of an assault on your constitution. There were many things, in that can that I had never seen before, nor do I wish to see them again.
As I sat there I watched the other festival campers pass back and forth, trudging through the claggy earth. A neighbour close by poked his head out of his tent, "Fucking hell, where're my bastarding wellies? It's like the fucking Somme out here!"
I gave a mental round of applause for his vigorous use of English at such an early time of the day.

Strauss, Tank and the Tasty Jesus Crew rose shortly later. After cracking open a few early morning cans of beer and discussing the previous days events, word got round that the main area had opened. Off we went to sample the delights of day two. Little was I to know that the "delights" were not going to be as all together delightful as I was anticipating.

Tasty Jesus went off to a soup stall for some pumpkin based liquid scenario. Now Tasty Jesus is fond of partaking in numerous varieties of amateur chemistry. He'll try anything and he seems to get his hands on a miscellany of chemicals, without much trouble.
"I asked if there were any 'mushroom' soup. Soupy Joe said 'No. But I can do one better.'"
Out of his pocket, TJ produced a small foil cube, the contents of which, I was told, was a sugar cube, infused with LSD.
"You fiend, do these things just rain on you?" Strauss asked.
"You just need to know the language."
"Not really," I said, "you just look like you're constantly fucked and need some variety of chemical to keep your blood pumping."
"Well, a little nibble of this will keep me going for a while."

Myself, Strauss and Tank headed for the main stage.
The Whisky Cats had just gone on, they are a quite an amazing band. Poor timeslot, but well worth appearing on the main stage. It was a collection of ragtime numbers, with an undercurrent of swing and mild indie pop. It was rocking. No banjo though. That made me sad. The triumph of the set came when these ragtime ragamuffins covered "I like to move it, move it!". It was perfect. The lyrics were bang on; the brass section blew everyone away with their arrangement. The crowd went nuts.

Once The Whisky Cats finished, we meandered round the area looking at the random small stages, as was our theme. On one stage was a band that were pumping out a standard set of indie tunes. Tight trousers and complicated hair. But they were palatable, not least because the singer was an animated, red headed beauty, who bounced around the stage like a maniac. There was a lot of bouncing, and parts of her seemed to be having a bouncing competition of their own.
"I'm so happy so many of you came to see us, we weren't expecting this big a turn out. Thank you so much.. Did anybody see the streets last night?"
And handful of muted "yeah"s sounded off around the packed tent.
"Did you enjoy it?"
An even smaller response rippled around the crowd.
"I'm not going to slag off Mike Skinner, but all I'll say is that I'd have like to have heard some of their older songs. Sung well!"
Cheers.
I liked this girl.
Sadly, like all the women in my life, she finished up and disappeared while I had my back turned.

"I'm going to put something out there, let's go back to the tent and have a few drinks."
"Strauss, that is a grand idea. I commend you for your plan forming ability."
Back we went to the tent. We drank; quite a lot actually, Tasty Jesus came back with a balloon. He sat down and breathed the 'air' of the balloon in and out until he laid back smiling.
"What the fucks that""
"Laughing gas!"
"Interesting. Fetch!"
Off he trotted and returned with a balloon for each of us. I was sceptical that it was Nitrous Oxide for a few reasons. Firstly, as far as I am aware, NO2 is a volatile liquid, so I wondered how the little scally who was selling these balloons managed to decant such a substance into a soda bottle without losing it all to evapouration. Secondly, Tasty Jesus did not laugh, he just smiled like a goon.
We all grabbed our balloons and ventilated the contents in and out. It was mad. Everything started to echo, colours exploded, proper nuts stuff. 20 seconds later, usual service was returned.
"That was alright. The echoes of all the balloons going up and down made quite a funky beat."
Conversation got round to drug usage and TJ produced his little acid cube and took another little nibble.
"Are you lot not partaking in anything this weekend?" TJ asked
I've never taken drugs. I've been around lots of people who have and found them intensely boring company. Coke doesn't interest me. I'm a big lad, if I wanted to be able to walk though walls, I wouldn't need chemical enhancement for it. Nor do I wish to spend a fortune on something that will make my cock and balls small(er). Opiates don't really interest me as I like to be up and about and amongst things when I'm having a good time. Lying, monged out, in the corner doesn't really appeal.

I'm not morally against drug taking, what people do is their own business. I love to drink. I put a chemical(lots of booze) into my body(well buff) to produce an effect(being totally charming and not falling over at all, much.).
The only problem I have with drugs is the manufacturing process, it's the exact opposite of fair trade, plus the end user gets a diluted substance so a bunch of cunts can get rich.

Strauss, a former proponent of the chemical arts piped up, "You said the only thing you'd be interested in trying is acid, didn't you?"
This is true. I find the idea of having a totally altered perception of things very intriguing.

After more drinking we headed back to the main area, leaving TJ alone with his peeps. We wanted to get to the comedy tent early so we could see Howard Marks. After a bit of a leisurely stroll, Tasty Jesus popped out from behind a massive oak tree, like a cartoon, woodland, villain.
"I got you something."
He handed over 3 small foil cubes
"Nibble off a third. It'll take about an hour to kick in."
Usually I'd have told him to fuck off, but curiosity got the better of me.

An hour later, around 9:30pm, we were standing at the back of the comedy tent, enduring some hideous, cockney beat poetry.
"Anything yet?"
"Unless imagining a ginger cunt, in a leather trilby, talking utter bollocks, is a symptom, I'm getting nothing."
"Fuck it," I said, "We all weigh about twice as much as TJ. Let's get amongst it!"
Full of foolish bravado I flicked the rest of the sugar cube into my mouth. Strauss and Tank followed suit. We all have a decent understanding of biology and chemistry so our drunken logic seemed bullet proof.

As it happened, initial third was just slow to take hold. By 10:00pm I was seeing traces, sounds were echoing, people were looking.
Were they looking at me? Fuck! This is off the third I took before. In two hours I'll be dripping of the ceiling from the rest of it. Why are people looking?
I was stood at the back of the tent, not at all paying attention to Howard Marks; he was just reading his old Loaded articles anyway.
I was receiving text messages. I was trying to reply and focus on the bright screen. That was difficult.
I wish people would let me write this text in peace. That woolly hat has a face. It's looking at my text. Fuck off hat; I'll text you when you give me your number. The man that hat is around is a slave. It's Master Blaster from Mad Max. The tent is way brighter than I recall. Everyone is laughing. I bet they're laughing at me. Bastards. Fuck, this tent is breathing on me, its breath is cutting through me. The crowd's heads inflated and deflated as the tent inhaled and exhaled. Waves of expanding and retracing faces and they have the nerve to laugh at me. They can't hide it. I know the score.

I glance at Strauss and Tank. Their faces contorted with wicked grins and jet black eyes burning into me.

It's time to leave.

Next Time: Catfish in the trees, Tank makes tracks and Pretence of normailty.
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