Midlands Music Festival
Posted on Wednesday, August 2, 2006I wake up in the pub at about two o’clock.
Not an unusual thing, you might say. We do this all the time, you might say, and you’d be right, if it was two o’clock in the morning, but it isn’t. No. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and I’m already fucked. It’s two o’clock. I’ve woken up in a Mullingar pub, I am fucked, it’s two in the afternoon and Wrinkly Joe is staring at me. I’m staring back at Wrinkly Joe and we’re both mouthing the same thing: “Fuck this shit!”
Why?
I’ll tell you why! We both woke up this morning in our cheap tents, lying in two inches of water, and we’re too fucking old for this kind of crap. That’s why! We both have gigantic hangovers because we stayed up late with the neighbours drinking whiskey and singing the Late John Garfield Blues, but that has nothing to do with the two inches of freezing water which we are too old to put up with. Fuck that shit. We’re sick of it. Sick and tired of that fucking shit, and we’re going home. Anyway, it’s the second day of the festival and it’s all bollocks.
Yesterday, we heard the wonderful Emmylou Harris, and what decent man would not die happy after that? We also heard Loudon Wainwright, and Albert Lee, though not Buck Owens, because the selfish bollocks up and died without warning us. Furthermore, we managed to abduct and kill Charlie Landsborough with a blunt tent-pole, which was a real gift to humanity, and so our duty is all ended in so many ways. We want to go home. We’re too old to be cold.
We really are fucked, and what’s more, my jeep is making very painful sounds from the brake area - sounds which I’m convinced will be very costly to me. Grinding crunching noises are never cheap.
Wrinkly Joe looks at me again and repeats “Fuck this shit.” This is Joe’s way of saying “I have failed to complete the Irish Times crossword due to a blinding hangover. How did you get on with the Sudoku?”
I say “Fuck this shit.” This is my way of saying “My socks are wet and I want to kill Kenny Rodgers before we leave.” It’s also my way of saying “Why do these stupid Mullingar bastards pay good money for the shit they serve you in the restaurants in this shit-hole of a town?”, but it isn’t what I mean to convey to Wrinkly Joe. I’m too hung-over for that.
Joe understands.
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Stumble it!
May 8th, 2007
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July 26th, 2007
[…] you might recall our adventures from last year, when we worshipped at the feet of the sublime Emmy-Lou Harris, enjoyed Loudon […]