Shrimped in the Vortex

They say fortune favours the brave but try telling him that having plucked up the courage to talk to the festival goddess only for her to turn out to be the best friend of the girl he was with the night before. With The Killers providing the soundtrack (they’re actually still alright), the boy they called Dag was banished from Molly’s chamber to the dank reality of a festival escaping him. We plodded back to our camp deflated, resigned to an anti-climactic return to Dublin and a hangover capable of taking the whole plane down with us.  We’d saturated our WhatsApp group in preparation but all the Rice Crispy bars in the world couldn’t save us now. We were doomed… and then the musically inclined freaks and geeks convention threw us a doggy life.

From nowhere the sanctity of our circle was invaded by balloons- hundreds of them, our marquee threatening to launch into space at the hands of a Pixar fanatic claiming to be a Balloonatic. Transfixed, we clung to the coat tails of euphoria in vain, our intruder less stimulating than we’d hoped. But as the old saying goes, don’t judge a Balloonatic until you’ve told him to leave. Grasping a knife from a mystery pocket, he slashed the dreams of every helium balloon hoping to fly that night and oddly, we fed off it. I looked to the Dag with a glint in my eye as I could see the strength in his paw returning. There was no need to say anything. We were going on an adventure.

In the distance an illuminated tree growing from the sunroof of a Volkswagen Beetle caught our eye. We knew our cars. The thud of the base shot the lights from leaf to leaf as a rave emerged at the foot of the evergreen. There was life in this festival yet. From the trippers to those that couldn’t get up again, we’d stumbled across an apocalypse. A body of a girl rose from the abyss peering up at us through her conjunctivitis. She was Irish, and you could tell she was excited to see us by the way her head bobbled. As words failed her, our eyes focussed. Like zombies to fire the crowd gathered by the insufferable beat box, motionless and dribbling. If this was a nursery rhyme, then this porridge was long passed overcooked and our meal lay elsewhere.

We walked for miles yet nothing seemed to get closer. We never questioned the way because we didn’t know where we were going. At least that was my story, until we arrived. Greeted by Mike and his bag of brown crystals, we had found Wiggle’s friend Natalie’s camp.  No Natalie here, a guy dressed as a lion tried to introduce himself but his best efforts were hampered by an evacuation of the mind. Out from his lap perked up a blonde astronomer, keen to assemble our star signs before we went any further. Blatantly ignoring her we moved on to SteveO from Jackass dressed like he was auditioning for The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. It was hard to tell if he was smiling or suffering but I reckon he liked us. Beside him, Mitch from Modern Family and his fictitious nearby girlfriend. We swapped nonsensical blabbering that seemed important at the time and shared an American Pie style fraternal nod as if to say we’d found our people. And then came the Australian with the elephant.

He appeared from the darkness like Steve Irwin reincarnate carrying the lifeless beast on his shoulder.  I bet you boys have never seen anyone fist an elephant before? He was right. Staged like an Amsterdam sex show (or so I’ve heard), the lights came down on a violent act of anal jackhammering. The elephant’s trunk seemed to perform a satisfactory Mexican wave as we split our sides laughing in disbelief. I’m bloody shrimped after that fellas. He sat down beside us as we extended our olive bag but despite his infectious laugh it was hard to ignore the elephant in the room. Before we could pry, an Indian with a bathmat for a cape came to save the day. Brown Batman, the Aussie yelled, and so it stuck. The more we licked our palms clean of the brown dust the better it seemed to get. The elephant grew bigger, the Aussie louder, even Mike developed a voice. What do you call an Irishman sitting outside? Paddy O’Furniture. SteveO’s brain was visibly melting, Mitch was up and down to his imaginary girlfriend and Brown Batman’s facial expression had frozen in time.

Missed a spot.

Things reached a momentary lull as we looked to each other to establish some sense of reality. I bet you boys have never seen anyone head an elephant before? Hold off on the reality. Taking rectal examinations to unseen new levels, the crocodile hunter drove his head up that elephant’s arse like you would a firework to a helpless cat on Halloween. He pulled out sweaty and satisfied and sat back down among us as if nothing had happened. That would’ve made more sense. At this stage we’d given up on Mitch, only spotting him dancing like a spastic hawk long after the heading. He returned in denial, stuck with the ball and chain don’t you know. He’s shrimped. As verbal assaults gathered pace, SteveO nonchalantly took centre stage. Anyone have any toilet paper? I just shit myself. As the boy in the striped pyjamas walked off into the moonlight with a hand full of his own shite, Brown Batman had been promoted to Black Batman and we needed to get the fuck out of there before our situation became permanent. We said our goodbyes, much to the dismay of Aussie Steve. You can’t leave me with these cunts! We had to.

When we got back to our camp our attempts to tell everyone about Narnia seemed to make it all the more improbable. Like retired soccer players harping on about the glory days, all we wanted was to get back in the dressing room. So as if just to prove to ourselves that all this weird shit actually happened, we went back. And there they were, shrimping more than ever. The elephant. Roscco ride the elephant. He approached it tentatively, not wanting to startle it but as he went to mount it the dumb brute collapsed from under him. He’s fucked man. In fact he was Styrofoam, revealed to us by an enemy camper who literally tore the hole off it minutes later, much to Mitch’s horror.  I don’t even want you guys to meet her. You’re animals. We were certainly something alright.

As the sun rose Natalie popped her head out from the tent. Turns out we were in the right place, but our time had come to leave. We walked back in silence trying to process it all. Each of us had front row seats to the freak show. If we thought a little less of ourselves, maybe we’d admit we were part of it. Played leading roles even? We left the theatre behind wondering if any of it were real, facing down the barrel of a daunting clean up. Amongst the carnage we found the popped balloons, and for the first time in a long time, we were normal.

 

Part IV – Have you been to the Vortex?

The lights among the trees brought them to life and suddenly there was an Ent in my midst. It had taken the form of my bearded friend Charlie and watched over my night like a guardian angel. I pirouetted through the moving bodies and vibrant colours and could feel my heart pulsating to the beat of the drum. I spotted a two-legged panda dancing from the top of the hill and raced to join him before he disappeared. It was the first time I’d danced with a panda. We tangoed before the main stage, a giant ark filled with musicians and acrobats, everything I imagined Cirque du Soleil to be and more. I recognised nobody and yet seemed to know everyone. As our feet pranced, the dust rose. Strobe lights punched lively silhouettes in the cloud formations. At the height of my euphoria the music suddenly stopped and the people scattered. I found some familiar faces and we returned to camp but it was clear they weren’t seeing the bigger picture. After eating a tube of toothpaste and having an interesting chat with a Mexican wrestler who had entered our circle, everyone went to bed. I looked to Charlie in the tree and we both agreed that sleep wouldn’t be happening tonight.

I wasn’t alone for long. Two stragglers approached wearing wide grins. The glint in their eyes told me we were on the same page. One rode a unicycle and the other was sporting a magnificent poncho. Have you entered the vortex yet man? God that made me laugh. They didn’t stay and chat but before I could follow them I overheard infectious giggles and spotted two girls behind a nearby bin in hysterics laughing. I waved at them and they waved back invitingly, but the closer I got, the further they seemed to drift.  These are small, but the ones out there, are far away. Was I losing it? An enormous sound rumbled through the tree-line commanding my attention and suddenly waves of paratroopers starting dropping over Charlie’s head. They were storming the beaches of Byron Bay. Didn’t they know this was a music festival?

Panic had descended upon me and yet still my friends hadn’t stirred. Like superheros in the dark of night, poncho man and his mate on the unicycle returned, but they seemed blissfully unaware of the apparent invasion. Have you entered the vortex yet man? Were these guys retarded? Before I could ask, the girls were behind the bin again giggling and waving deliriously. I ran to warn them of the attack but I couldn’t get in any way close and they laughed at my pitiful efforts. Maybe I am in the vortex, I thought.  Not knowing what else to do, I tried to escape into a deep sleep but every time I closed my eyes, my mind was tormented by cackles and the mantra of have you entered the vortex man playing over and over like a track skipping in my head. The plane engines were getting louder and soon the troops would be here. How could I sleep at a time like this? Tweety Bird! Thank Christ for that. Chirping a whimsical tune, he was a welcome distraction. Hang on John. Tweety Bird from Looney Toons? What had I taken? It finally became clear to me that my idea of reality had been compromised, but the little yellow bird continued to sing on regardless.

I sat for hours waiting for my friends to surface from their slumber, ignoring the questions of the vortex, the suspicious looking tree, the flapping of Tweety Bird’s eyelashes, the giggles of the girls and the impending invasion. My brain had gone to mush.  Slowly coming back to some sort of reality, the first thing I noticed was the Mexican wrestler mask strewn over a camping chair. The chats we’d had. I pointed out the water tank and lamppost that had created the Charlie mirage to a puzzled but equally honoured, human Charlie. It was all quite funny until I heard the jet engines all over again. But I thought I’d been hallucinating? I turned in terror only to find a skydiver performing a tandem jump out of a glider. Quite a popular activity for backpackers in Byron, you big eejit.  By all accounts, I was the picture of good health that morning. A face like a chewed up minty, a pal once remarked. As friends discussed the night before over cereal, I battled cartoon imaginings and inner torment. I had gone on an almighty journey of self-discovery and my memories, vividly intact, were undeniably unique. The journey had been mapped out on my tongue as The Roots played in the New Year, 2014. It was a free ticket I couldn’t refuse.

Part III – The Road To A New Year

New Year’s Eve. Dublin. The year? Sure they’re all the same. The ultimate hallmark night out in the city. Half the Christmas street lights have frozen to death and yet there you are, forking out twenty quid to suffer frostbite in the queue of your weekly haunt just to see if you can count from one to ten backwards. Most of the night is spent trying to get a ‘Happy New Year’ text through to your Mam as you battle the dreaded network congestion.  What do you mean that’s just me? By the time you’ve managed to get a drink at the bar for that cute girl you were dancing with, she’s already been picked up, married, popped out two kids and is struggling with a mortgage on her overpriced flat. It’s tough going but sure neck that gin and tonic and act like she was never there.

One of my few fond memories of New Year’s Eve came during a torrential downpour. I had the wisdom to bring out an umbrella. Imagine. Huddled under it with my mate Rossco, smug looks on the pair of us like a man that slipped a deadly fart passed a packed congregation, we watched on as evacuated streets came awash with rain water and fake tan, only for an opportunistic taxi driver to swoop in too close to the curb and drench us beneath the cover of our defence. What could we do only break our holes laughing? Indeed if you’re not ringing a bell or downing a pint, there’s not much to do on New Year’s in Dublin. But this year I wasn’t in Dublin. Instead I’d got my hands on a camping ticket to the Falls Music Festival at sunny Byron Bay, and for once, I believed the hype.

What I couldn’t believe, however, was that one of the girls had set up a personalised Facebook group detailing every requirement necessary for the ultimate camping experience months in advance. I was unaccustomed to such levels of preparation but clearly I was alone in my bewilderment. You see, I had only travelled with my beloved friends from home and we were about as useful as Bruce Jenner’s condoms. Years ago on a tour of Spain we arrived in Bilbao and hopped in a taxi, only to discover that none of us knew where we were staying. I had a great book of useful Spanish phrases that I left in Ireland. Would’ve been ideal. Anyway, a few international calls later we’d found our hotel, but on that same trip we also went to a music festival. It was in Valencia and it was called Benicassim.

We arrived by bus from Barcelona on a sweltering afternoon, hungover and dehydrated. Looks like we’re camping in the poxy Sahara Desert. Battling the reluctant dirt with the strength of an ailing midget, we managed to pitch our tents just about deep enough to stop the ants from stealing them in the middle of the night. Nothing better than a cheap, warm can of Spanish piss to celebrate.  With the eye of the sun now slowly burning away my spirit like Hank Scorpio’s laser, I could feel myself fading towards the depths of hell. I made a limp dart towards the toilets but lost my vision along the way. Drowning in my own sweat, my mate didn’t believe that I had gone blind from dehydration as I implored him to take my hand and walk me all of four feet to the portaloo. To this day I swear that if poor ol’ Choco had left me hanging I would’ve collapsed and shat myself and probably gone viral all at once. Discovering a nearby cold shower soon after probably saved my life. And yet here I am still questioning the need for planning an event so far in advance.

So back to these camping essentials. Have you ever rocked up late to a festival and your mates have already looked after the set-up arrangement?  That feeling of hope as you approach. Multiple marquees, iced baths brimming with beers, barbeque fired up, sound system better than main stage and a hot tub on the back deck. Then you stroll passed that mirage to find your actual tent; half caved in under a lingering, solitary rain cloud and accompanied by an unwelcomed shite on your doorstep. Bless. Well this time the mirage seemed a possibility. Days before hitting the road to Byron, the boys were busy in the kitchen making mammoth amounts of chicken pesto pasta to last the week. We had continental breakfasts prepared for each morning and enough toilet paper not to have to worry about square usage. We had tarps, marquees, bean bags, coolers. We even had mangos.

All that was missing was our party treats and this is where Australian festival organisers get it so wrong. Permitting no outside alcohol and charging extortionate prices for mid-strength beers at the venue leads ticket holders, mostly scrounging students, to boldly sneak in their own resources.  A can of light beer would run a patron seven dollars. Buying five would be the equivalent price of purchasing twenty four outside the venue.  Having already paid over five hundred dollars for admission, what other choice do you have other than to supply your own stock. I’m just being realistic and here’s the major issue. Such is the extent of the rigorous bag searches at the gate, the smaller the item, the easier it is to sneak in. Therefore, spirits take precedence over beer. Nothing better than a few rums to start off a session relying on stamina, says the lad seen kicking off at six and choking on his own vomit at seven. And that’s where drugs come in.

En route to the Byron Parklands from Brisbane, the trippers among us can avail of a quick detour to Nimbin, the herbal garden of Australia’s east coast. It hosted of the 1973 Aquarius Festival. The event was obviously ‘highly’ successful because some of the psychedelic souls in attendance decided to never go home and instead created their own alternative wonderland amongst the trees. Although the village hasn’t quite retained its original hippie vibe, it remains a smoker’s delight and in terms of picking up a festival care package, you can see the smoke for miles. I’m not going to tell you how we passed the search or how our treats went unnoticed by the sniffer dogs. I mean… I’m not saying that we went to Nimbin. Sure seven dollar mid-strength beers- bargain! I don’t need to be intoxicated to have fun. Mammy wasn’t born yesterday John. She’ll soon find out.