Just a quick one. Quote of the century- from David Mitchell in todays Observer.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/jul/19/david-mitchell-cricket-air-travel
When I was about 7, Radio Rentals took my mothers television back. Apparently, they were upset that she hadnt fulfilled the ‘rentals’ part of the bargain. And at this tender age, I was introduced to the longest, most fulfilling, sustained relationship, I will ever have.
Now, it wasnt love at first listen. Radio 4 when you are that age, really isnt that exciting. I did however learn to love the perky theme tune of the Archers, and was very surprised that you could listen to ‘telly’- even plays, game shows, and people being funny-even if I didnt quite get the joke.
The separation from telly, was a shortlived one. While I was intrigued by Radio 4, my mother was definitely an ITV girl. And to be fair, what was she supposed to point the furniture at, if there wasnt a telly? The gas fire?
I was given my first radio cassette player when I was about 12, and while I dutifully listened to Radio 1, and pressed play and record for the entire duration of the Sunday chart(when the tapes were played back, they were quite good, until the top ten, when you would hear nothing but me screaming for absolute quiet, in case I missed something..), I would sneak the dial back to Radio 4, when no friends, sister, or mother, were there to mock me, for preferring the occasionally very dark plays, and the joy that was Woman’s hour.
In my late teens, Radio4 became a ticket to cool- as 6th formers competed to show how grown up they were, and how cerebral they were, in preparation for university. Eschewing the pop of Radio 1, and the grandad cheese of Radio 2, to appear clever and urbane.
But still the television took pride of place, with its paralysing, apathy inducing blend of adverts and terrible drama- with the furniture pointing at it, and its dominance in conversations at work, about what we had done in lieu of having a life. The televisions got bigger, they were on longer, there appeared more and more channels, and the cost of keeping this habit going became more expensive, with a husband happily parting with cash to that icon of virtue and free media, Rupert Murdoch-in return for 24/7 football news, MTV for the kids, and endless repeats of classic american comedies. Any request that the TV be turned off, was met with incredulity-surely it must be something serious if we were to expect the box in the corner to turn black.
As a social worker- trying to get people to turn off their football pitch sized plasma screens(bought from the modern day cross between Radio Rentals and Shylock!), and choose to speak to me about the welfare of their children-was seen as the ultimate in the interfering nanny state. Yeah, take my kids- but god forbid I have to turn off the television.
As I got partway through my marriage, I began to resent the constant intrusion of noise and pictures. The effect on me(if the television was on, I could happily sit and watch absolute shit for hours, because the effort to change the channel, or turn it off was too much), the effect on my family(asking someone to do something to assist in the running of the household- when competing with Malcolm in the Middle-is just unreasonable)- and the fact that I would effectively spend evenings alone in the same room as my husband, while he watched the same match that he had seen every other day of our marriage.(The one with a green pitch, 22 blokes, in various colours of shorts and t-shirts, where the it either ends in a win/lose/draw).
I longed for peace and quiet- and when everyone was out, it would be turned off, and I would wallow in silence. Or switch on Radio4 and welcome back the calm, authoritative voice-which soothes and informs, but doesnt intrude, or prevent you getting on with your day.
When I moved out of our marital h0me- the fact that I hadn’t bought a television was of some concern to people. My stepson worried so much that I couldnt afford one, that he obtained a television for me. I accepted, because when you have a 20 year old being so thoughtful, you do not crush them by telling them you dont want it. The television sat there in the corner, gathering dust, apart from the Hollyoaks Omnibus on a Sunday morning(Cant stand the Archers…need something to stare at). By the time I realised I was paying my license fee to watch merseyside girls wear very few clothes, in in increasingly bizarre storylines, on a Sunday morning- I had had enough.
My relationship with Radio 4 has blossomed into a full blown marriage. From the righteous indignation that starts the day with the Today programme, through to the company offered by my beloved Women’s Hour, to the incomprehensible jargon of the shipping forecast, and the weird, dark, and wonderful plays, which outclass anything seen on television.
We take each other for granted, my spouse and I. I tune in and out, and get on with my life- occasionally paying attention, but mostly just treating it as soothing authoritative background noise. Occasionally, this partner, that I admit I take for granted, surprises me, outrages me, or makes me laugh hysterically. It is still identifiable as the same Radio 4 I was introduced to at 7, and if you looked at the schedule, you would see that aging has not changed it- apart apart from a few minor noticeable laughter lines, andvecoming a bit less rigid, to reflect the society it is in.
While I winced at the grief tourism and death for sale of Jade Goody, and Micheal Jackson, with funerals that should have been covered by OK. When Clement Freud or Alistair Cooke passed away, I nearly shed a tear, and felt there had been a loss.
And so here and now, as I have my radio off for the only time in the week(Archers again)- this is me saying thankyou, and I love you- to my oldest sustained adult relationship. Radio 4, I love you. (Apart from the Archers, and really, there should be enough digital channels now, so that you can stick that somewhere else…we could have Any Questions and Any Answers repeated on a Sunday morning…I might start a facebook group).
My bed looks like any one of a million beds across the UK today- newspapers strewn and crumpled,various food recepticles with remnants of tea, danish pastries, and roast beef sandwiches. THere are rizlas, a smelly snoring cat, and laptops. There is a boy occasionally checking his soundcloud account- to see who has played and downloaded the tunes he released. I have punctuated the morning with naps(one took place between writing the first and second paragraph- does that indicate this is a dull dull read?), writing obscenities on Twitter, checking facebook, and browsing through the RSS newsfeeds on my toolbar-which digest the worlds news.
The Sunday papers, is a long held tradition- that I have realised this morning is fading quickly into the past. My dutiful trip to the shop to pick up The Observer, is one that has been repeated since I was 17 years old..but after I had seperated out my sections(Main Paper, Music Monthly, Review, Escape, Business then cherry picking anything I have missed- in that order) consumed my newspaper with inky hands-I realised this ritual was being usurped. I found myself getting confused as I went through my RSS newsfeeds- as I realised I wasnt having deja vu, I was just reading the same article again online, but that with each article I read, I could immediately go to a related article, in another publication. I could respond immediately and directly to the articles which raised my ire, through comment sections- and I could intersperse this with random comment on twitter- and talking to my friends.
I will probably take the papers, as I always do, and put them in the kindling bag next to the fire downstairs. And I daresay, I will continue to buy my paper on a Sunday, for quite a while yet. But today, I have realised this is a relic of a Sunday morning tradition- There was nothing in there, that I couldnt get more effectively anywhere else, and I am sure that at some point I will let go of my need to spend Sunday with inky fingers, and to have actual paper cluttering up my house..and accept that this shiny box I am typing into, has usurped it, as it has usurped my need for a stereo, stacks of cd’s, a television, a phone, and the need to collect endless piles of paper bills/payslips. Which is a shame, as without stacks of newspapers, clunky old media, and paper, I am not sure what my house will look like. Boyfriend has suggested buying a Kindle reader- but if am honest, I am not sure I want overpriced, clunky, paper books, usurped in the same way.
Do you know what a state dependant memory is? You know when you are drunk, and you lose something, and then when you are in the same state, you remember where you put it. That is a state dependant memory, and that is what happens with me and festivals.
My stomach sank on Friday morning. I looked out of the window, and after a week of glorious weather- I saw torrential rain, and Lake Gallilee had formed outside my house. This was the first state dependant memory. The memory of every festival that I have ever been to. Waking up on the day of departure, to torrential rain- and the prospect of a weekend with trench foot, bad food, and cold. I packed deeply unnatractive waterproofs(which i lost anyway, and never felt the benefit of..), my list of the bands/dj’s I intended to see, and off I went.
By the time I arrived- the torrential rain had dissapeared- left enough mud for the wellies to come out(pink candy striped wellies- clearly not an outdoors girl really..) and been replaced with glorious sunshine.
Unlike every other festival, I did not spend hours grappling with the intricate science of tent erection- instead arriving on site after my friends(actually one friend and her friends) had constructed a tent, laid it out with all things necessary for a great weekend, and already settled in. This all boded well. As it was, I barely saw this tent, and not putting it up, meant I was not familiar enough with it, to actually find it without difficulty and luck, later on in the weekend… Her friends quickly became my friends, and off we went.
The initial forays to explore the lie of the land, became entwined with the festivities, and I happily realised that the whole of Hebden Bridge had upped sticks to this collection of muddy fields for the weekend- with my neighbours, my stepson and his friends(trying desperately hard not to look like they were doing anything illegal at all..) and various acquaintances from different stages of my life- also there, in wellies-tentatively exploring this site of tents, marquees and sounds stages. After the first hour or so, of inhibitions falling, and decibels increasing- time began to lose all meaning.
Went from soundstage, to marquee, to tea shack, to a beautiful clearing in some very tall woods pounding with techno, and teeming with people. Many conversations with people, some strangers, some not, some already half recognised, and gotten to know in the time that elapsed between Friday evening, and Saturday afternoon(evening? Really not that sure). Had conversations with everyone, on topics as diverse as the meaning of life, the new Doctor Who, how to eat a twix correctly(you nibble the chocolate off the sides, then peel the toffee off the biscuit, then either eat the biscuit or chuck it..). It was dark, then it was light. Then I was lying on a sleeping mat, in a circle of tents, with some rather nice people- considering the awful choice that lay before me.
Lie there and fall happily asleep in the sun(which was already hot) and eventually be discovered as the toasted remains of me, or move and find the tent(which could have been green/red/blue, large or small, and possibly in a field with more tents…). As I did not at that point, have the capacity to move- my options became rather limited. THe porch of someones tent was offered- and I lay there, hoping for sleep, but actually listening to the competing decibels and beats, from the various soundstages- contemplating the fact that there was definitely a toothbrush and an unopened pack of cigarettes in the tent I had lost.
After being christened Bernard, and being part of a discussion about which animal we would prefer to be stampeded by(we came up with Meerkats-but realised it was impractical- as we would need about 15oo meerkats trained to stampede, possibly in pyjamas, and that might be difficult to locate)-the urge to pee, became stronger than the urge to sleep- and after a doze(it may have been sleep, it may not)- I went to look for the toilets.
This turned out to be a masterful stroke of planning. While I did not find the toilets- I did find my tent. Important rule- if you are looking for your tent at a festival, you will never find it, but kismet and serendipity mean you will always happen upon it eventually when you are looking for something else.
Saturday night at a festival is always different to Friday. The energy and the enthusiasm dissipates somewhat, and it is replaced by casualties from the night before, trying to rediscover the energy that they had the night before-without realising that the lack of sleep, adequate nutrition, and a shower- means it is lost till at least Sunday.
I valiantly gave up at 4am, and spent several hours asleep in a yurt.
Sunday was spent in a day of relative sobriety, looking about 30 years older than my years- eating cake, drinking tea, and contemplating going home. This placed me at odds with the rest of the gathered partygoers- but responsibility beckoned. They had found the energy to party with the same enthusiasm that they had arrived with- but this was my cue to leave. As the friend I had come with, was in no fit state to drive- I grabbed a lift to the station- and on Sunday evening, I managed to get myself home, albeit with filthy hair, a mouth that tasted like someone had died in it, and attire that might as well have been a neon sign that said ‘I am on my way home from a festival’-(muddy wellies, denim cut offs, a bag with a sleeping mat sticking out- and hair that looked like it was on the verge of dreads).
Today, as I settled back into life watching Rachel, drinking tea, having clean hair, with techno replaced by Radio4, I was reassured by the friends that I had been with, that they had had a wicked time. State dependant memories of recovery from festivals, have appeared out of nowhere- . I didnt see any of the DJ’s or bands I intended to see(I may have caught 808 state, but really was unaware), but I did have a brilliant weekend. I have eaten terrible noodles, some things with chickpeas in it, and a very greasy burger, and paid way over the odds for the priveledge. I have peed in smelly portaloos, and I am quite sure that my stuff will remain in the bags I took for at least a week. I dont have trench foot, I do have sunburn, in a pattern which indicates it was earned while I was lay on that sleeping mat, procrastinating about finding my tent.
Rachel is now in bed. I am clean, my house is not, and I have decided that that is my festival fix for the summer. Unless Kendal Calling tickets fall ito my lap…
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