For God's Sake, Gary

Morning Campers! The uplifting sign that watched over us Red Campers at Bestival already seems a whole child ago. Getting my less-than-manly hands on a ticket was touch and go for a while and began to fear that Bestival-ing was not the will of the Gods...the batty creases.

As it happened, I came across an upstanding gentleman in the Brighton metropolopolis on Facebook and called in the G8.

Let me explain what the G8 is. The G8 is a group who know that when you put another man's cock in your mouth, you make a pact. A bond that cannot be broken. It's a unit that is so dedicated that it will get down on its knees and put your cock right in their mouth. Putting the 'U.N' in FUN, the G8 are a select and good looking bunch of homeslices from Brighton who I've had the pleasure of meeting through me mate Andy Fairweather.

Named after a Reading campsite, the G8 is a group made up of the "blessed few that have suckled upon the sweet nectar that is 'Bodger's Goon' and experienced the fun and love that G8 brings to each and every one of its lucky members" (Fairweather, 2010, JP-edia).

The G8 were kind enough to meet the upstanding gentleman in Brighton and fix me up whilst looking sharp.

Andy Wightman C.B.E. was obviously legendary enough to drive the two of us down to Brighton in preparation for the early morning venture across the Solent. After 5 hours of verbal encouragement to the midnight motorway workers, wee-weeing in McDonalds car parks and some questionable (and strong) iPod action, we finally arrived in Andy's arms and prepared to mix it up with East Grinstead's insomniacs at Tesco.

After 3 hours sleep we were up and away to Portsmouth to catch the hovercraft.

When I was a nipper, I used to have a toy hovercraft which used to reap havoc by roaming around the streets on my felt traffic mat and I've well wanted a go on one ever since.

We were expecting queues at the port. I mean, there were 50,000 people embarking on the Isle of Wight(man) in the space of day. However, we remained fairly upbeat upon being told that one of the hovercraft engines had gone west and that we were facing a 4 hour wait. We had some beer, some good company and glorious sunshine but I was soon starting to hemorrhage enthusiasm.

10 hours after joining the queue, we were pitched (or popped in my case) and ready to do exactly what comes before Part B. As a fan of nuts, here is Bestival in a nutshell. It's a cracker:

• Laying some outstanding dance foundations during Dan Le Sac and being snapped by Topsho...man
• Building on these foundations to become borderline outrageous during Simian Mobile Disco
• March of the Penguins II, Ellie Goulding and the darn paparazzi
• Vi-freaking-talic and his amazing lightshow (pictured below exuding from the Big Top Tent in t'background)
  
  
• Increasingly naked penguins getting sweaty with High Contrast
• A joyful Leeds crew with the ever-amazing DJ Yoda at Arcadia
• Some warped late night helter-skelter fun with JP, Speed, Hannah and Harriet
• A not-so-secret Bombay Bicycle Club gig and Liam telling me to pipe down...bitch
• Losing things/everything
• Whipping cream adventures
• Scavenging in the post-festival landfill

I've tried proper hard to find out who it was that had a blinder after Ellie Goulding and who it was that came all the way from Paris, France with some funky brilliance (and choreography to boot) who rocked the Sailor Jerry arena on Friday, but I've had no luck - the Bestival website is tote whack and I do not care for it one bit.

Despite some magnificent musical highlights, it was this tune that Andy Wightman had me humming on my way back to reality:

DJ Fresh - Gold Dust (http://www.youtube.comwatch/?v=RNuUgbUzM8U)

Reality then. It hasn't been so bad.

Having stolen a leather couch and failed to cram it through our flat door, I arrived home to find Si in his trademark foetal position and the said couch sitting proudly on our poorly-fitted laminate floor. Si and his papa had successfully squeezed it through, which was, y'know, good.

Without doubt, the highlight of my abseil back to reality was seeing Holly and Alan for the first time since returning from Glastonbury. Having eaten numerous sandwiches and a quiche already, the girls, Si and I headed to Frankie and Benny's for a car crash of a meal (warm beer, cold food, half-hearted pizza toppings). After checking out a pretty pish cinema listing, we decided to have a couple of frames of bowling and further giggles. Many of the giggles were directed towards some questionable techniques employed by the girls. They're awesome.

I won both games using children's balls.

I managed to get out of working the Barenaked Ladies gig in order to jam with the famalam and take in some football and curry (LAD) before probably heading to bed around 8:30pm on Sunday night, where dreams of Freshers Week will mock me close to tears.

Barenaked Ladies - One Week (www.youtube.com/watch?v=fC_q9KPczAg&ob=av2e)

I will leave you with some of the wisest words you will ever hear slurred at a festival. Late last Thursday night, probably arm in arm, JP turned to me and said;

"You can't sore like an eagle if you hang around with pigeons".

Get flapping people x