o2 festival

went to the o2 festival in hyde park this year. I was not too impressed..

So we arrived in London. Got off the underground at the wrong stop so ended up walking for what must have been hours to get to the hotel. Posh place, too posh for me. But nevertheless quite a comfortable stay. I check the time. S**t! Late already.. already missed most of the terrible excuse for music used to fill up the time until the seasoned professionals come out of their 5 star dressing rooms that turned out to be porta cabins of strange proportions. F**k me, the walk there was hard. Up more hills than I care to remember, then you think youre there... You're nowhere near, my friend. This is now Hyde Park. The gargantuan freak of a park. No normal park is this size, and why is there a road running through the middle? I prepare myself for the painful knowledge that I now have to share my oxygen and to a greater extent, space, with a few thousand trend setting twenty somethings with sticks in every orifice I can imagine. And all the rest, if you know what I mean.
So Im surrounded by a sea of people possibly more drunk than me, and definately more stupid. How I know? I dont, all I do is guess, but guessing's what Im good at these days. Nobody needs to think if they guess well enough. How I got here, I cant remember, let alone guess. That should give you some idea of just how drunk I appeared to be. The music was no longer important. Survival was my goal. I felt alsorts of limbs flailing at and around me, and suddenly I was taken to the forests of Cambodia, and it was kill or be killed. I look around me, not recognising anything that could constitute a face, let alone an individual person. I was in a blur of something, and it was moving in convulsions.
Suddenly I was lifted fromt his place. There is still music, but it's different. I can still tell the difference between genres at this stage. I started to scribble on my notepad. Anything that could be used would be a blessing, but I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days when nothing works. Fatboy Slim is here somewhere, should I try and find him? Try for an interview? Or should I listen to more music.. "Drink more" says a little voice in my head, so I obliged, never having let down my own voices before. Next to my amazing ability for guesswork, I have found my instinctive voice my greatest friend, and my worst enemy. The beer hit me hard for no reason other than the too many more sitting inside my belly. I need to puke, or even better, piss.
The music has come to a halt, though there are still voices and some sort of bass hammering in my ears. Is it really outside? Or is this my own creation? It doesnt bear thinking about. Suddenly Im running. From what, I dont know. What I do know is I guess something has happened, and I guessed it would be a good idea to run. My guesswork is second to none. I run down every one of those son of a b***h hills I had to climb up. All the way down to the hotel. The woman on reception struggles to understand my slurred accent and over tranquilised walking style, yet eventually, after several looks and a couple of phone calls, hands over my room key. Stumbling into the elevator, I realised an interview, my sole reason for going, was really off the cards now, and that Norman Bates, or whatever that old Fatboy Slim man is calling himself these days, is probably sitting in some helicopter, moaning about how diverse his fanbase isn't. Whilst deep in this contemplation, I realised two things.. I had now been joined by an elderly couple, and I'd missed my floor.
The more important thing I realised, however, was that an intervew with an old man who is clutching at youth through his samey music noone listens to anymore isn't what I wanted. I wanted an interview about the experience. And not the performer's experience, or the trend setter's experience.. my experience. The average experience.