Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Why I am not going to the Bangface Weekender this year. Sob.

Every year at about this time, I start getting butterflies. Big clonking great flappy butterflies right inside my tummy pit. You see, usually at this time of year, I remember nearly every day that in a month or so I will be setting up shop in a Pontins chalet darn sarf, with nothing but loud noises, mates and several thousand gallons of liquid good times between me and the following week.

Ah, the ethereal lure of Bangface. The hundreds of yards of neon orange dreadlocks; the reverberating "WUB WUB WUB" of your kidneys slowly disintegrating into a low-frequency mush; the chalet parties after hours; the hangovers at the beach (and subsequent "Sand Gammon barbecue"; the large inflatable mascots; the utterly pointless but somehow magical flyover by a light aircraft pulling a semi-offensive sign. "Come join us!" the acid house smiley says to me, as I open the website for the 10th time that day. "I'll be there soon." I usually reply, a wry smile playing on my lips as I turn up some Altern-8 and pretend to get on with some work.

Alas this year is not last year, or the year before, or indeed the year before that. This year I decided not to buy a ticket to that rampant festival of joyful destruction. Although my reasons at the time were perfectly valid, they seem to be losing their relevance with every passing minute.


I decided that this year I couldn't afford to spend over £300 on Supernoodles, lager, slush puppies and other essential weekend rave items (never underestimate the necessity of babywipes when there is only a cold bath and the temperature inside the main room is approximately hotter than a hot-tub on the Sun) - nor could I justify a weekend of pure indulgence when up until recently all I had been doing was galavanting off around Europe like a jet-setting little shitbag, or living it up (sitting on a sofa in pyjamas drinking cheap wine) as an unemployed person. Now that I have a job, I intend to keep it, meaning that losing the ability to live for a week after the great event just isn't an option.

There are other, more sad reasons not to go though. Last year the number of little twat children jumping over the fence was unreasonable. As if they cared about Bangface. They just wanted a slice of the "no questions asked" policy. I'm beginning to feel old in groups of youngsters who haven't been to bed in two days. It just doesn't feel right to me. I want to feed them, and then put them to bed. This isn't the right attitude for Bangface. I fear I may bring the tone down.



Nothing ever stays the same. Bangface, although fantastic, will never top the euphoric heights of the very first weekender. I had no idea what to expect then. I wish I could forget it all and then go back fresh. Instead, I know this year that more and more dubstep children will take over the once-pure fields of hedonism, and slowly morph it into yet another land of SubDub monotony. I can't bear to watch. And so that's why I'm not going.

Saying that, if you've got a free ticket I will definitely come.

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