Festivals. What a hoot.

Sunshine, easy lazydays sitting on the grass listening to music and poetry and going to bed at dawn with the very slight feeling that you might have had too much festive beer, talking to strangers about the loveliness of life and the sweetflower smell of summer.

Scratch that.

Mud. Thick liquid mud: the stuff that sucks the soles off your industrial strength boots (and it did) and has that slightly milky-dung whiff. Waterproof coat with a ganzy underneath (Lancashire for ‘jumper’ although they have them in Yorkshire too), woolly hat, black skies, dripping tent not long enough for t’other ‘alf’s feet, drunk blokes in frocks propositioning you with very easy to refuse offers of hot sex. Trench foot.

But it was a JOY nonetheless! My boy’s a natural stone stacker (apparently, according to the professional stone stacker), daughter found the henna tattoo parlour and came back semi-permanently covered and I’ve a new-found respect for slam poetry and dry shampoo.

Feels like I’ve had a 3 day intravenous energy drip.


It’s wet in here.

It’s coming in through the zip

and your knee’s in my back

and that hard bass thud won’t stop

and I can feel the start of a need for a pee

but I’m not going out in this

because I can’t get my wellies off without a pull from someone.

Don’t think about it.

She was good though wasn’t she

what’s her name again…

the one with the poems about women

about childbirth and the real purpose of breasts

(I can’t say ‘tits’ even in my head but she could)….

…remember that shelf of porn in the newsagent

labelled ‘Women’s Interest’….

and that girl with the guitar who made me dance,

the one with a voice like flying who took me away for a while

and let me swing through the trees.

God, please don’t snore.

We’re in a tent.

It’s starting,

those deep breaths that go far back into your head.

If I tip the pillow forward a bit it might stop…

Remember that man wearing his mum’s fur coat

and skinny stick legs laced into boots

do you think it’s because of Grayson Perry because it wasn’t just him

there were lots of them

neatly pre-war coiffed


and remember the sandy haired chap

who’d trimmed his yellow beard to a point

and that girl with the green sequinned nipple tassels

in the queue for the loo.

She looked cold.

I’m glad we got the extra thick self inflating mattress


Filed under oddbods, poems, poetry

3 responses to “Sp’Latitude

  1. Brilliant! Well you created the atmosphere brilliantly there! Sounds like you are having a memorable summer. Im off to see Madonna tomorrow as she happens to be performing yards from my front door…I wonder what she will strip off in this concert!

    • Thanks Niki – it’s proving to be immensely memorable! Spent Saturday evening at my sister-in-law’s wedding at the Art Club in Glasgow….lovely tatty-carpeted place which smells of polish and wood and which I fear is about to be refurbished into blandness. Another one bites the dust…..Hope Madonna well!

      • Oooh, I’ve just looked up the Art Club, I see what you mean, it reeks of atmosphere & bygone days. Bet all that woodwork has seen many a thing. How lovely.
        Madonna was awful! No support band, terrible sound, played nearly all her new violent techno stuff, she arrived late, didn’t engage at all then scampered without so much as a thanks and bye! Shame as it was her first performance in Scotland but probably her last as loads of folk walked out and the departing crowd was more like a wake!

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