We love a good festival. We love the mayhem, the day drinking, the non-stop tunes, the banter with the culchies you normally only talk to absolutely pissed out of your bin outside Coppers. We love the randomness and BFF approach people take in the queue for the porta-poos but we recently got back from a reunion of scarlet sisters & misters at Electric Picnic in the motherland (that’s a festival in Ireland for all you beautiful exotics reading this) and while yes, it was completely EPIC, we also wanted to stop and take a moment to point out some of our favourite morto moments of the weekend, ’cause there were a shit load:
1: Festival Attire
I don’t understand why people turn festivals into a fashion parade, your in LAOIS, in a fucking field and it’s baltic outside, put on your jacket! And for fuck sake, we all know you’re wearing fake tan, the only sun Ireland has seen all summer has been in the form of a Capri Sun. WASH IT OFF, GLENDA! Anyway, below are a few other fairly mortifying garments we spotted on our scarlet prowl.
- The adult onesie. These had a time and a place. I don’t know when the time was and what place they were deemed socially acceptable, but it’s over now. Just stop. Like even when I see babies wearing onesies, I’m like, get a grip kid, stop being such a basic bitch. No wonder babies are always crying- it’s cause they can’t fucking move in them, like strapping them in a straight jacket. Anyway, adult man, you look like Tigger in that stripey onesie, but you smell like porta-loo, and are giving children the wrong idea. Also, on a more basic level, mate, it’s just not can-smuggling friendly as it should be to combat the extortionist prices of the beers, it’s too obvious. It’s all about the bottles of wine in the jacket hoods, the small cans of vodka in the too large wellies. It’s not amateur hour. Sort it out babes.
- The mini skirt and tube top in the middle of the night gals. You’re frozen. LET IT GO, LET IT GO, LET IIIIIIT GOOOOOOOOOO. Seriously though, do. You look morto. Trying to pretend the shivering you were at in the queue for the loo was a dance just made it worse. We all know ye were just queueing for the portaloo to get a bit of a shelter and warmth while Sorcha waited outside for you untying her fringe jacket from her fringe bag. Ah, there’s always next year hun.
- Flowers ON EVERYTHING. I thought I was at a fucking garden show half the time. Why do you have a halo of daffodils on your head? Is Dermot Gavin your father? and I don’t want to alarm you but I think you are a clone, like Orphan Black style, cause I saw like 300 other you’s over there queuing up to see if that really was Rosanna Davidson eating a taco.
2: Drinking Buzz
People were absolutely FUCKED the night we arrived. By people, I mean 19 year olds. 6pm. Vomming like they had just eaten a bag of raw chicken. It was like arriving into a field of zombies after some Coppers apocalypse. So many young ones with none of their Ma’s cooking to absorb the booze, were just turning into slurring messes. All found in a heap on Sunday at Fossets Circus being carted off by Oxfam. Probably for the best. Make room for the refugees.
3: The “Gas” Fecker With The Laser Pointer
While we might appreciate the desire to add to the light show, you’re actually just a class-a dickhead. Put it away! Actually- bin it. You actual knob. What even are you? Who the hell owns a lazer pen that isn’t a professor at a college trying to up their Powerpoint game or some lonely cat owner trying to torment the only creatures that they truly care about? Get A fucking GRIP.
4: People With Kids
Not in general, like, do whatever you want. They’re mad cute, but like why do you have to bring kids to a festival that cant even appreciate it. Legit saw two mother of the year candidates there on Friday night shoving prams around about 2am, fucking bleary eyed drunk. If you can afford to come to the picnic, you can afford a babysitter. Leave it out hun. Some mad bitch there had FOUR kids with her. The actual stress of that. She was going mad at people in the queue for the toilet for not leaving her precious babies into the loo. Social services need to be on the line up next year. Saaaaaaake
There is no denying it. We were an actual Scarlet Brigade walking around there. It started out harmless enough, drove up in a mini van, scoffed a few wispas and tried to pretend that this year would be different, that we would skip from the car to the camp-site within minutes, maybe even be picked up along the way by Blur, who would see five absolutely cracking birds hobbling down the road and pick us up. Obviously that did not happen. Instead, it took us about two hours to find the camp-site cause apparently the sign posts are all in braille, I dislocated about several parts of my leg tripping on some young one on the way in, I followed that up by breaking my bag hobbling in cause I crammed about 48 cans in it. I decided that putting cans in every available space including the wellies draped around my neck was probably not the best idea. (Side note: did not drink one of those beer cans throughout entire weekend, as I am total knobber and could not be arsed going back to campsite. Instead, I snuck in small tiny cans of vodka in my bag that I robbed from my mate, ’cause the other cans were too big from my precious little mittens to carry) Ugh.
Anyway, that’s all I remember of the entire weekend except for some stupid interview we did with 2fm in which I think I called some people peasants, being in the forest at 5am talking like a gentleman from cambridge, buying vile grey monster gloves, that were so hideous they were later ironically nicknamed SEX GLOVES because the last thing you ever getting wearing these sexy babies is laid. Graphic image of said item below.
I also think I like Sam Smith now, but I can’t really remember. Scarlet. But like, obviously going back next year.