A panoramic view from canary wharf to the Gherkin poured through my shut eyes filling my mind until my eyes opened and I was awake. Stumbling to my soles I gripped at sun rays to steady myself this weekend had been heavy so far and Sunday promised no let up. Meeting girl in flower pattern dress in the communal kitchen of this ‘legal squat’ I proclaimed a lack of knowledge as to my exact location. Putting me straight she led me out and with cheerio’s of “I’ll see you at 1234!” I left.
A hangover lay like a low pressure keeping my head down and I noticed nothing of my return yard other than a can of cider nestled in my paw. Getting to the front door I bustled in, my phone bleeping constantly with questions. A quick re-up was in order so i exchanged clothes with my wardrobe and empty pockets with cash. Re born I spring heeled my way east to find Neemo who I was sure was floating about the foundry.
Clinking our beers we traipsed off towards the festival, joining a column of retro throwbacks and decade clashing festival goers. After passing the steep tax man we entered what looked like an empty field with congregations surrounding the two tents and one stage. The weather fucked it a bit a grey drizzle hung low above the site and yo-yoed on top of us through the day. I first entered the ‘club tent’ and got my drink on while Neemo snapped-flashed the dancing density. The atmosphere was definitely more in keeping with a club than a tent. The bands that filtered to and fro on the stage seemed to reflect the weather a grey drizzle of inevitable similarity.
Then the moon came out and Patrick Wolf strut-jigged on to the scene. Bumping into a fashion blogger pal of mine we knocked knees and wobbled within the hopping crowd. What a fucking performer, he even managed a costume change which really stood out in an empty and familiar festival. The sound wasn’t that great and I’m not personally a huge fan of Pats back catalogue. But as a performer he really excels and makes the head turns fixed. After the howling wolf who told a bottle casting crowd member to come up on stage and get “some raw bum sex!” I headed to the other tent as it became known and its innards to be resolved to be unknown as my drink was really on by this point and dancing was my aim. This tent offered me no option to achieve that aim.
Photography by Neemo Bawany
Words by Darragh O'Meachair
Words by Darragh O'Meachair
