I swear, the stuff I get on here could almost have been written by me. It’s amazing what you find when reading short stories and testimonies from prisoners and patients around the country. It’s almost that time of year again when I get to judge all the KOESTLER entries and this time I’m going to type as many of them as I can up with real identities and names included so their families can see their work online. A.D
To begin with I drove there drunk, which I know is neither funny or smart, but it was daft o’clock in the morning and I’d been up all night shotgunning Lambrini, arguing with a young racist girl from the local juvenile hall. If she hadn’t of been so devilishly handsome I would have turned the other cheek, but instead I had a good ole face-off with her in public and ended up getting both cheeks slapped when my own razor-sharp insults got under her skin, but that’s another post.
I parked my lovely racing-green Vectra in the corner of an empty field and approached the perimeter wall. By jumping up as high as I could I could just about get my fingertips on, but to pull myself up would take a valiant effort. It was a good job then that I saw a ladder lying flat on the grass. It belonged to security. They had a little lookout but nobody was in yet because like I said it was milkman time so I used the ladder to get in and then stashed it in case I needed it later to help some friends in or whatever.
Knackered, I found a tent and had a kip in it.
A few hours later I was sober and blue. People were working all around me, sound technicians and other gob-shites. I was well concealed in the fold of a tent but they must have seen me or at least knew I was there because every now and again something would touch me. They were literally working right around me, within spitting distance. Forget these buggers, I said to myself, and got up to go the bog.
Wouldn’t you be in trouble if one of those portaloo cubicles fell over and landed door-side down with you still in? Just a thought.
I roamed around for a while as everyone set up their gear and tested the speakers in the main tent. Testicles, testicles, one-two-testicles.
Luckily for me I came across a guy unloading many crates of Stella so I helped myself to one. He had a van’s worth and he would have only sold each can for £3 anyway, so don’t feel sorry for the scumball. In fact he was lucky I didn’t bash him about his noggin (nut) with one and take his dusty white transit van (aka gypsy van....someone had written drive carefully, don't kill a child, wait for a lawyer on it's filthy side panel).
I downed 2 of those tinnes like chilled Lilt in the desert (doesn't free stuff taste more livelier?) which got me shit-faced again before making my way back out to my car, which I couldn’t find, getting lost in the surrounding rural wilderness after damn near nearly killing myself falling halfway down the ladder and crushing my ribs on the cans. 2 of em' burst open and I had to do some more downing, which fizz-bombed my brain with alcohol.
I finally emerged from the bushes with what must have been a third of a crate down. I’d been playing Bear I-didn’t-know-he-wrote-books Grylls in the trees on my own like a dunce, walking over planks balanced across brooks and s**t like that. To my delight there was a queue of manic fit women in fluorescent dresses and spotty wellies. I swear, the sun came out just as I laid my eyes on all this juicy colourful totty.
I waded over like Moses parting the Red Sea (was it red?) and thereby attracted the attention of some coppers who not only wanted a look at my ticket but also a peek up my bottom as well, for concealed contraband. FOR REAL BRUV! They wanted me to squat and spread em’ behind their van. As is usual when I’m borderline black-out I can’t remember what I said or did from then onwards (think of sleep-walking with activities).
I remember waking up once on a park bench wondering who had shit in my pants. JOKE. It was on a town bench really. JOKE AGAIN.
I came around in Daresbury holding cells. It’s a brand new facility, very modern, with decent lasagne for dinner. I could actually hear the music from Creamfields inside. They let me out quite late once I’d slept my headache off so I walked back to The Wire, forget going back by this point, and stayed at my mate’s flat, where I could see the festival from his 11th story window. In the darkness, it glowed like an amusement park in the distance. I thought I could still hear the music, all the way back from there.
I’d completely forgotten about my car.
Written in 60 mins
© Toby Thomas MMX