On a cold and frosty morning, there's not a lot to say. Have I stolen a pint of milk from work for coffee? Have I packed my Thousand Yard Stare t-shirt? Have I been to the gym enough to get through the onslaught of Shiiine On?
I catch myself in the mirror. Greyer and fatter but, never more ready for the annual trip to Minehead. Why the fuck did I have the 6th pint at Gerry Cinnamon last night?!
The first rush of excitement as old friends meet is allayed by hips falling out of place. Much like 4am finished, hugging around a hand brake is a young person’s game. Four hours of shit jokes, farts, and laughing at your mate for pissing in a bottle as you deliberately ignore Fleet services fly by. This alone is worth 200 quid.
Being the musical geek of the gang, inevitably I’ve spent hours making playlists. Agonising over which new Candy Opera track to add or about which new band is the best Oasis re-hash. The Crooks or Columbia? (it’s The Crooks for me). As you take that exciting right turn past every supermarket under the sun and the Big Top becomes a reality, so does that they haven’t listened to anything you have curated. When Liam Tyson shreds later, then they’ll listen!
Admin. Bleurgh. Queuing for check-in for 30 mins, why didn’t we get here at 10am? Maybe next year. In the meantime, I’ll stare at everyone’s trainers and parkers like a fourteen-year-old staring at strap-on sally chasing you down the alley.
Beers in the fridge. Beers in the freezer. A warm beer whilst we wait. Lammo on 6music. I wonder if he’ll repeat the same John Peel joke again. I wonder if I’ll laugh again. One hour until Ivory Wave, keep drinking!
Then it happens. Like it does every year. There are only three, of the four of us in the lounge. The extractor fan is on. The slow waft of service station expulsion meanders into the room. The wretched fog is here, and with five thousand middle-aged folks digesting the one nutrient between them in Burger King all weekend, it’s loitering with intent.
That first walk to the main arena is like the coronation. The laughter at the Inn on the Green grows steadily, the bouncers friendly (that’s not very 90s), and then it begins, Stone Roses is booming. As it surely always is here. Minehead, in November, is grey, bitter and the seagulls have come beyond the North Wall in Game of Thrones but, ‘She Bangs The Drums’ paints night like a Jackson Pollock masterpiece.
Jug after jug come. I should eat, maybe after Rev. Jug, jug, Thatchers, jager bombs, jug repeat! I should eat. Maybe after Cast and Lightning Seeds. Shit, I can’t hear the Seeds properly, maybe I should eat no? Not before Sice, never before Sice! I eat, it’s not legal, Apollo 440, Adamski and Cut La Rock take me to a buffet of love among strangers I forgot existed. I should sleep. One more pint with this couple as they tell me about meeting at Spike Island.
Chalet. Bed. Sleep smiling. Best friends. Best strangers. Best day one ever.