On Thursday 10th July I flew to Luton Airport from Madrid. Yes I flew. I damn well hit the runway and sold my soul to Easy(sleazy)jet. Turns out it was better to be without a human spirit when they announced a 2hr30mins delay to my flight at 9:30pm. I personally thanked them for reminding me why I was chosing to opt out of air travel. Onboard, by-passing the furious Aussies who were possibly missing a connecting flight, I was amused by the blonde air-hostess giving out the safety intsructions in her familiar Essex accent. It seemed strange hearing it again and I couldn't work out if I had missed it or glad that I didn't have to listen to it anymore. But why Luton Airport and not Stansted seeing as that's actually my personal Airport (as my father says sarcastically we really do enjoy our personal driveway through the villages and town of Stansted, over the M11 and into the terminal). You can fly to anywhere in Spain from Stansted except Madrid, handy that - much. Though that's all changing now with demands from whoever the movers and shakers are in the Aviation industry to start flying to Madrid. Landing at Luton gave me a warm feeling anyhow. The same one I get whenever I land back in Britain from being away. I've flown quite alot in my life, a luxury I forget to acknowledge.
I first flew when I was 4yrs and it was the best flight I've ever had. My Dad was working out in Canada and my Mother and I flew out to Toronto to meet him for a bit of a holiday. My mother was quite nervous I'd play up when taking off and landing because of the pressure so she gave me lots of sweets to keep my mind off it which I loved of course. We were in Buisness Class so I was the only child there and naturally the Air Hostesses were nervous I'd get bored and disturb all the other Buisnessmen. But there was no need to be bored - there was a wide screen TV for god sake! Wide screen! In the early 90's! I was in heaven with the leather seats and strolling around on the carpeted floors with my shoes off, I acted like I owned the joint and everyone thought I was cute for it. A way through the flight the Hostesses invited me to cockpit to see the captain and the view from the front. Oh my God! It was amazing. I've never flown Buisness Class again or gone up to the cockpit - naturally flying has been a sort of let down eversince.
I had to fly back to Britain from Spain for some emergency medical supplies. I was flying out of Stansted to Valencia on the Tuesday 15th July for travelling to Benicassim. Stansted was the usual, I was sad to leave it. Like I was happy flying into Britain, with the spontanious smile I get realising I'm home, I was meloncholy when I left. Sad to leave the place I love below but knowing I have to now. Turns out there were alot of festival goers on my flight. There were a group of five lads I identified as festival goers by the traditional wearing of strange hats. Hats has been the accessory of choice for at least 4 years now. It's all about the bowler now but no one has caught up on that - they were all wearing the straw trilbys still. Turns out they were helpful when we landed as I had absolutely no idea where I was going or how to get to Benicassim. I knew there was a train but getting to the train staion? (and remember I had my house on my back again, complete with ironic 'wish it was more individual' Cath Kidston tent). I had a rough idea of getting metro and generally just followed the flowing skirts, designer sunglasses, trilbys and backpacks. It was seeing the other festival goers that made me realise my one nice dress wasn't really going to cut it in terms of style. But what the hell was I supposed to do? I was camping for god sake and I'm already on my travels. You can all dive back into real life once the festival was over.
I have been looking forward to the festival since I left my University town of Plymouth where I was living back in Febuary. I left behind some friends who were coming to meet me at the festival that I was incredibly excited about seeing again. I needed some R and R with my ol' time crew to re-fuel me for my next stint at being alone in Spain. (I aint got a job at the mo and everyone I know in Madrid is leaving - losers). However - on train to Benicassim, finally get a text from one mate and his girlf who say trains are rammed until eve. Great. It's gonna be me holding down 3 tent pitches all by myself - I see that happening - much. My other mate was meeting us the following day. Or so we thought. I rocked up at Benicassim train station around 2 or 3pm in searing heat and was not looking forward to hanging around wondering what the hell to do or where to go liked everyone seemed to be doing. Outside was an info booth - a nice lady told me to walk to campsite about 20mins away. Yeah, great, lovely. The Spanish mid-day sun, my house on my back and exercise I was not mentally prepared for - loving it.
Treking on, reaching campsite which seemed a bit too much like a wasteland for my liking I got told to wait before being escorted to camping spot. Wait?! Wait - you bloody kidding! I'm about to collapse from exhaustion! Anyway... the long road ahead (it was actually like 5mins) and we got to a spot where a group of about 20 of us were told to wait again when the organisers didn't really seem like they knew what they were doing. Ahhhh, aint that sweet - when I'm bloody dying! A frantic Spaniard asked if there were any one persons available. As everyone else came with friends I jumped at opportunity of being told where to camp. She showed me a tiny plot practically on gravel pathway where we were waiting. How picturesque, (does sarcasm come out in bloggs?)
Now I've put up many a tent in my time, having gone through an obsession with camp-outs when my parents aquired the field at the back of my house and also being a Guide (how traditional and tedious too) but somehow I made it a rather less smooth experience at Benicassim and what little style and grace I had, I was losing fast in the struggle to put the poles in. Luckily I was next to four lads from England and one of them offered me some help. How lucky I was to be camping next to someone from England I thought. How lucky it was that most of the people at the train station buying tickets were English, how lucky that most of the people there seemed English. Oh no, hangabout - what the hell happened to the foreigners? This was Spain for god sake. Tent up - I kipped til I recieved phone call from mate saying him and his girlf had arrived.
It was about 10:30pm and we had an impromptu meeting on the walkway. As luck would have it, they had been assigned a pitch a couple of letters away. I walked with them to site where we decided on tactics to keep pitches all together in wait of my other mate and her boyf from Plymouth. My mate put up the tent as his girlf and I took part in what we named 'Festival Relocation Relocation'. Up we took tent, bags and all and walked up the path with structure, dodging a few allready drunken kiddies from Wakefield. I only managed two pegs in tent anyway, ground was so bloody stoney. Wednesday the three of us chilled on the beach where I noticed those airline boys again. The groups that I was coming accross generally seemed to fall into 3 catorgories - the lads holiday, the girls holiday or the couple of couples group. On returning from day we found our camp that was on edge of site next to walkway slightl encroached on by another group of 5 tents. Luckily, the group turned out to be a pretty good bunch from Manchester and Leeds. They managed to break the mould in typical festival goers there in as much as they seemed to have a mixed ratio of females to men and couples to singles. Plus they weren't like 14yrs, excited about the fact they were managing to smoke weed. Or as one guy came up to them and said "I'm so fucked." And their reply being "Well you're obviously not are you - you can walk."
But by this time the three of us were only slightly worried about where the other two would camp. They were meant to meet us on Wednesday or Tuesday, I forget but their flight from Newquay on Tues got cancelled. Their next flight was Thursday when they were going to make contact in noon to tell us when they would arrive. Unfortunately, on returning to my friends from a lovely swim in the sea, they told me they were refused boarding at the airport. Something to do with my mate's boyf's passport being unreadable. I suspect the lazy so and so put it through the wash or something. So that was her out of the running for some fun in the sun which made her livid and me extremely dissapointed. That night was the first night of music though so I hoped it would pick my spirits up.
It did not. I couldn't drink to get drunk, I was dehydrated allready. Entering the festival site was a hideous affair of being searched for alcohol. I just had a small bottle of water in bag which they didn't seem to mind that night. The next night I took a normal sized bottle of water which a Spanish Festival Mafia man thought might be alcohol so I protested "Agua, Agua." To which he took cap off, smelt it and threw cap away. Threw it away! Threw it away in one swift action he had taken away a basic human right to water. Becuase in this way, as the organisers well knew, I had to drink it all in one go and then buy more at bar which is even more of a fucking liberty than I have ever encountered before. One could only buy drinks with tokens previously purchased at a booth which cost 2 Euros and 50 Cents per token. One small beer cost one token, one bottle of water cost one token. 2Euros50C for a water! You fucking kidding me! By taking part in this festival of music I was becoming subservient to the capitalist pigs that were running the place - I did not enjoy that loss of control. Or more importantly - loss of choice.
But Sigur Ros were on the first night and they put on an excellent show. The best show there I think many would aggree. And it was a shame they were put on the first night and not the last. I had never really heard Sigur Ros before and didn't really know what to expect but I love being introduced to new music and I fell for their sound as I recognised one of their songs used on an O2 advertisement. They had massive paper globe lights suspended from above that faded in and out to the music along with the occasional strobe punctuation that the lighting guys seemed to enjoy for all main stage shows. We were not that far back, but far enough in the crowd that every 2 minutes I was jostled left, then right, I could barely keep my balance to stay standing. I've been in shity crowd situations before, the usual at Reading when teenagers go crazy to Foo Fighters. But this was different being that I was still wearing my flip flops. Didn't make that mistake the next night. Getting to and from a performance was the hardest task, managing to keep my balance in barely there footwear when every other person coming towards me, behind me, moving past me was stepping on the back of my flip flops. I was not a happy bunny. Having my toes crushed by a bouncer looking fellow comeing straight for me was the last straw and I returned to camp without an ounce of feelgood drug in me.
Friday was a better showdown, with me finally purchasing tickets for drink (much to my despair obviously) and us and the northerners getting on nicely. We watched Babyshambles whom I have never seen before and have never had a desire too. If you're a fan of Pete Doherty - look away now. I have never seen him as any benefit to music whatsoever. The only shows I've ever been privy to clips of he's been falling over from too much of what ever the hell he'd pumped into his body that night. To me that is not talent - that is a waste of space. So I was hoping to be pleased by his performance at Benicassim. I wasn't much. He did manage to stay standing for the whole thing and say a couple of words. But I felt no movement by his music. And as soon as I did hear his voice I could tell him for what he really way - a scared person with no confidence. Why else would he pile himself full of shit.
I had a nice falafel after the show then went off to Spiritualized who put on a good show with good music. That's all I ask of music festivals... somewhere to let lose to good music without having your personal space being incaded. Somewhere to free your mind to something new. Oh my God I want to be at Woodstock. Damn, I was born too late. Saturday was pretty much the same with eating, seeing Jose Gonzalez but then made the mistake of going back to camp and calming down and having a kip to which I could not rise myself from and missed The Raconteurs which I kicked myself for. But Sunday I was well looking forward to. Morissey was up. I love Morissey and yet I have never actually seen him live before. He is one of those guys that I feel speaks through his music and no one dares do that these days believing it harder to make money that way. There's a reason it's called the Music Industry and not an Art Club.
He was on just before Siouxsie who I also wanted to see for Genrational sake but didn't manage. Morissey played everything I wanted to hear and more. And when I heard those familiar songs, and the lights go up and down in time to the music - I was free. I was enjoying it - I ruddy loved it. Because I believed in it. The music, the words, the moment. It was mine. Morissey, always criticised in The Smiths for being romantic, now has turned into a dissapointed and sarcastic artist. I love him for it of course - it's the truth. But he did seem to let the side down a tad going on about Vegetarianism to the Spaniards. Who are you trying to change - this is their culture. But he kept on about 'Death, Benicassim is not free...' or something or other which was a bit uncalled for. But it didn't spoil my fun.
Another legendary moment from earlier the Sunday evening was Leonard Cohen. OMG! What a guy... what a voice. So soulful, so deep, so effortless. The VIP section was the fullest it had ever been the whole weeekend as everyone had turned out to see his possible last ever tour of Europe before his 74th birthday. Amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing. Ironicly though it was the last day that turned out to be the best one I had spent in Benicassim. Monday when half the camp were exiting for England leaving some mighty scavenging going on by the hangers on. Considering we were in Spain, the food in Benicassim wasn't that great and alot of us seemed to survive on what we could find in Supermercado and trek back to camp with (the whole death defying experience that was crossing the out of town junction of main road, though not as death defying as the idiots who decided to play 'lets roll down the roundabout hill' onto oncoming traffic). The flimsy barriers that served to pretect pedestrians from traffic was defintely put down to 'the Spanish way'. Glasto would have had a health and safety field day.
But on the last day, the northerners, my mate and his girlf and I found a lovely little resturaunt to have lunch in. It might have been Italian in origin but offered us some official Menu translation entertainment in chosing what to have - and my God there was alot. I felt that had Gordon Ramsey entered the joint he would have said "fuck me there's alot here isn't there." My mate, his girlf and I had already discovered an offering of 'Sausages to the White Wine' in a jamon joint up the road. Here we were able to find such delightful dishes as 'meat and treacle starter', 'all of the cakes with some of the ice creams' and 'beef cheek'. Exactly which cheek would that be now? Fun was in the translation and on attempting to order when the boys got double the beers they were expecting when asking for Ceveza and then specifying which beers they'd like. Entertainment was further provided by Mat with one 'T' who discovered a whole chilli hidden in a bubble on his pizza. An instant after he told us of this chilli his face burned a bright red and it was all he could do to drink water and then retire to the bathroom to gather himself. Of course us at the table had descended into fits of laughter helped along by my mates girlf who was feeling the humour more than most. Once Mat with one 'T' had returned he was then put out by an on set of hiccups which was more annoying to him, thus fueling our laughter rather than a hilarious incident itself.
We spent Monday afternoon on the beach where we were surprised to learn that there was to be no swimming because the weather had turned a tinsy bit stormy. Tall Helen did suggest how ridiculous the no swimming was as those conditions in British waters would have been perfectly acceptable. Before we settled down to a game of Shitface, courtesy of Matt with 2 'T's two pack of cards, we were treated to an ocean drama as one man had took it upon himself to ignore the red flag on beach and swim as far out as he could, prompting an emergency rescue by lifeguards. One lifeguard who attempted to swim after him, 2 lifeguards who decided to take the boat out, a lifeguard who came on a quad bike from up the coast seemingly just for the crack and a Civil Guard. It was all rather exciting in a comical, this is a tad bit of an over-reaction kind of way. The man who eventually came out of the water was rather lardy and didn't seem to have any inclination of what events he had caused. He was of course even more put out when the Civil Guard attempted to take down his details.
The night previous had seen lots of scavenging as the campsite was emptying and I and small Helen had spent the whole of Monday walking around town with lylos we had nabbed from those who had left. The kiddy idiots I had got my retro bed from were complete and utter shit-toffs. The kind with no sense and voices barely broken and all they caused me was agro as they'd swan into camp at 5.30am shouting their baby faces off about who they had or hadn't got off with. The girls weren't much better - idlessly gossiping about who was going out with who on camp and putting out with a bottle of vodka. Like get over it - and learn some self respect. The Monday evening saw some desperate attempts of scavenging left over tents which another group of kids were building up 'hidden' in an abandoned shelter. Matt with 2 'T's revealed a more devilish side to him as he was rather taken with the idea of a lighter and and an aim for their stash. To be fair this would have been sweet festival justice as the little f***ers made a nuisance of themselves constantly baraging us for weed and using the shade structure as a climbing frame.
But we made for ourselves a carpet of stolen lylos and chilled out to the sounds of a personal i-pod the last night. A perfectly relaxing evening bringing to a close a more or less lovely week. The following morning the Northerners left in their hire car for Barcelona. We said our goodbyes and expected the obligotary Facebook adding. I left my mate and his girlf on camp as I headed for station for 11:00am train outathere. Had a panic booking session on Friday when I realised everyone would be heading out that day. The platform to Valencia was packed but not as much as the other one to Barcelona. I think I definitely picked the right direction to come from. It was a Cercanias train that rocked up for us which meant a race for seats and no space for luggage. At Valencia though i had time before my afternoon train for lunch and a stroll through a part of the city. Loved it. On board train back to Madrid (not before my luggage was scanned on platform) I settled down to a nice film and a quick sleep. I was heading back to reality and the post holiday blues were setting in as I realised I still wanted to be on holiday. All in all a good trip, not what was I expecting but good. Highlights - Leonard Cohen and Battles for those that saw them. Let downs - Jose Gonzalez and Babyshambles for me. I think next year I'm off to Summercase near Madrid.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
