In and Out the Post Code II

[faustus]

A couple of months ago Ollie mentioned a festival he was running at Badlesmere. Beer and bands, and did I mention beer? Camp over night, there's a barbecue, oh, and beer. Clearly knowing the way to a man's heart, he persuaded me to file it away in the check it out nearer the time mental box. I looked up the place on the net - not helped by the pronunciation not quite sounding like it was spelt, and failed to find more details, or at least details for 2007. Talking to others I found out it was near Faversham - but not exactly near public transport. But it sounded as if it were in the manner of an invitation, so I could blag a lift to here.

The months went by, and I bought myself a two person tent (on the grounds it was cheaper than a one person tent) from ASDA and a sleeping mat from ALDI. (I'm considering only buying stuff from shops with four letter names.) I got round to testing it in the back garden, on about the only dry night this month, and it seemed to work, although I can't say I got a lot of sleep. Then I phoned Ollie to arrange the lift, and I was to meet Becky at the Carps at 9.50.

I wasn't the only person to be picked up, but the other passenger was having a bit of a domestic, and so it took a little while to collect them. The military schedule was falling behind. Then to O and B's house to pick Gaz up, and a diversion to Morrison's for post-pub alcohol. Then back to collect Ollie, rearranging people between cars and off to the wilds of east Kent. It wasn't a long journey, and we were early enough to get onto the pub car park, from where we carried stuff to the campsite. Some tents were already up, and it didn't take long to get mine up, with the help of Gaz. The weather was sunny - this was going to be a dry day, although the forecast was rain for the evening. We had a couple of vodka and cokes, before going back to the concert field.

Ollie was in charge of the barbecue, so Gaz and I helped him get that set up, arranging a gazebo to cover the sauces and money table, and beginning the long process of getting the coals to burn at the right temperature. And of sending people away to come back when we were ready. In fact we got things cooking a good half hour before the barbecue was meant to start, and soon had a large queue to deal with. I was happy to stay cooking or serving all afternoon, as there was a good view of the bands, and it kept me active. Every so often the smoke would get too bad, and I'd have to step away, but there were a steady stream of customers. We knocked off at five for a couple of hours, before returning for an evening shift, but in the mean time we were looking at the Sumo wrestling.

It's not real, of course, it's rubber suits: you pull the suit over your head, add a neck brace and a helmet. You could hire them somewhere like here. Then the idea is to push your opponent out of the ring. Or, the way it really happens, push them over and jump on top of them. The kids loved it, the adults loved it, and it tended to be rather uneven bouts - 3 falls to one say. Unfortunately we were doing it near a memorial of some kind - a plant surrounded with bunches of flowers, so we had to move it over. I watched from a safe distance.

I've never been good at sport. The glasses don't help, but even before them I've had this healthy fear of breaking my neck. If aided I could do a forward roll, but the whole kind of back flip over a wooden horse was always beyond me. Sumo wrestling looked like an invitation to be knocked over and have your neck broken. Still, it did look fun. And so when I was challenged I agreed. Even if the challenger's girlfriend advised me to run. I remove wallet, mobile phone, keys and glasses. Then waist coat. This is serious. You pull the suit over your head, with help. I'd thought it would smell more - sweaty, bloody, something. A strap goes round your neck and velcroed on. Then a helmet to cover your head and neck, strapped under your chin. The suits are heavy. I couldn't run in one. I waddle to the corner.

I was at least smart about leg placement to avoid being pushed over - or at least pushed over too quickly. I think this surprised my opponent. And then, suddenly, sky in front of me. There's no easy standing up - you need a hand. Back to the fray - another stand off - and you can feel yourself going - there's the tipping point being reached - and you're done. You're down. Back for a third time, and I'm the immovable object, and finally I get the right pressure and he's over. I jumped on top and bounce off. Okay, he'll be mad now. Fourth time. This has been hours or seconds. I am exhausted. Back to the centre, and more pushing, and I'm swung and I can tell there's someone behind me. I've landed on a kid. Is that a broken leg? No, just a good deal of pain, but I've had enough. I admit defeat. I scramble out of the suit.

Lou, formerly of the Doves, arrives, and we chat, whilst everyone else goes off to the wet t-shirt competition. I've stayed to guard the money - and wet t-shirts don't do a lot for me. Soon I'm in charge of the Sumo, and two guys come up to have a go. I strap them in, which is difficult given their beards. Again, it seems a one-sided fight, but they're both laughing hysterically.

Earlier in the day we'd noticed Ozzy Osbourne wandering around. Well, probably not Ozzy Osbourne, but a look alike - although with brown not black hair and no tattoos. Some bright spark decided he should do a couple of songs - so he covered about three Black Sabbath songs whilst the next band set up. After the third song he started accusing the audience of being dead. Or fucking dead. At this point of the day - although it clearly changed for the evening - the crowd was largely families with kids. Jan the organiser cut his PA and told him to watch his language. Fair enough. He was clearly pissed by the preparations going on around him, but it still wasn't appropriate.

As always with these kind of things, most of the bands were primarily covers. Mental Floss began, for example, with a Beatles track. The band of the day were clearly meant to be Reculver, who were playing the Carps in the evening, and are apparently destined for great things. And one of them is Bruce Forsyth's grandson, apparently. Didn't he do well? Electric River were the real crowd pleaser - and assuming it was them who actually closed the show (it clearly wasn't Ben Jones and Carter's England), I agreed.

The rumour was that TV's Ben Mills who came third on X-Factor was going to close the show. I did enjoy feigning not to know who he was and then, when he arrived, sidling up to people and saying, hey, that's TV's Ben Mills who came third on X-Factor. I even considered going up to TV's Ben Mills who came third on X-Factor and asking him when the celebrity TV's Ben Mills who came third on X-Factor was turning up. But fortunately there were plenty of people wishing to press the flesh.

By then I'd been drinking. I'd started - after the vodka and coke - on Timothy Taylor's Landlord, which as always was a beautiful brew, but then progressed to Summer Lightning, a Wiltshire brew from the Hop Back brewery. I believe I had some of this at last year's Whitstable Beer Festival, but my memories are shady. A lovely ale, rather pale as I seem to like at the moment, and distinctly citrus. The keg was finished by the mid evening, and the choice included Spitfire, perhaps the only drinkable of the Shepherd's Neame standard beers, although their ironic jingoistic advertising leaves almost as nasty a taste in the mouth as their Nasty Spew Master Brew does. I do like Bishop's Finger - in moderation - and it's a local and independent brewery, but their standard bitters are not to my taste. The alternatives were a Dutch-style lager - Oranjeboom Pilsener - and a real cider.

I decided to risk the cider. I wasn't quite clear what this was called by now. Monkey Wrench. Monkey Spank. Monkey Spunk. Something. Marsh Monkey says the cold sober light of two days later. 8.3% and from the Isle of Sheppey. It's the 0.3% that makes all the difference. The first impression is how sour it is. It clearly isn't Strongbow. And if this was a pint of bitter, I'd send it back. But clearly my pallette is not the most discerning by now. It goes down, but a pint of Oranjeboom is needed before they shut the beershed. Unfortunately they've run out of glasses and the bar tender seems confused by the disappearance of the winner of the Yard of Ale who has left his bottle of champagne behind. I find a spare glass and return to have it filled. Actually, this isn't bad, and fortunately I'm still on comps. Ollie offers us all another drink, and I drain the cider to free up a glass for that.

By now it has been spotting with rain for a while. At the same time there's no real desire to go into the Red Lion where it is warm and there are seats. We briefly move to a picnic table which is shaded by a tree, then have to dismantle the gazebo. The rain gets worse. Tim, Laura and I stand to one side of the stage, under an umbrella and my hat, before Tim remembers the Wendy house and the shade that provides. Midnight has been hit, and everyone want the band to play on - especially the landlady - but water is dripping through the lights and onto the stage. This does not look safe. Men and women are dancing topless by this stage. The band adjourn to the pub where they play, we go back to camp.

It is not the easiest thing to start a fire in the rain, but Tim gets it going, with the aid of a Stella Umbrella. It gives out the odd flame, much steam, and not a lot of heat. The bottle cider is still mostly frozen. Smart move to drink cider slush puppies next to a fire. I hand out the Date Brownies I have made - loosely based on an LJ-Recipe on the principle of throwing in the dates and some raisins and whatever is to hand - which are declared delicious. Tim keeps being rained on - despite two Stellie Brellies - and Becky has decided to go home where she can sleep in her bed. Smart.

When the time comes to retire, I find that leaving my tent unzipped has let the rain in, and I have to bail out before trying to sleep. I can't be bothered to peel the wet clothes off, and the sleeping bag is pillow shaped, and I try to sleep as I am. Every time the wind blows I get wet canvas or lycra or poly whatever in my face. I manage half hour naps, aware of the puddle I'm clearly lying in. At six I poke my head out - people are clearly up and breakfasting - but it is Still Raining. By 8am it has stopped but is still overcast and I am freezing. I doubt I have dry clothes. I go for a piss behind the shed, and jump up and down on the spot. I have no hangover - that will be later I'm sure. I grab one of the wooden chairs we liberated the night before and sit down. I have a book somewhere. And an MP3 player. Instead I just sit. Someone's mobile goes off.

At nine thirty I start taking down the tent, and Jan arrives to wake Ollie. Laura calls out for dry clothes for Tim - he was soaked and their clothes are wet from a suspected leak. We take down Ollie's tent, and one which seems not to have been used at all. My sumo opponent arrives - he went home last night after a domestic - and he and his putative tent mate cook Laura and I breakfast as Ollie has gone home with Jan. Tim emerges for some breakfast, and we take that tent down too.

Time to go - and we squeeze everything into their car. Tim drives down the muddy track, with me ready to push should we stick, and there's a hairy moment just before the road. My alarm goes off - not so much a wildly optimistic eleven o'clock wake up call as it being easier to reset the time than turn the phone off. I'm home for the end of Desert Island Discs and a bath, and retire to bed, where I sleep until 6.30pm.

Hopefully meanwhile we have raised money for a school being set up in Isiolo, Northern Kenya, largely for children with HIV.

Edit: It turns out we made a profit of £600 on the barbie - which is enough to send a child to school for a year. We done good.

Edit 2: Final total for the event: two grand.