The drive to the FOM Festival was a drive of great beauty. One of those joyful car journeys abundant with the knowledge of the impending chaotic commotion and adventure that awaited. Myself and my beautiful companion, being highly optimistic, were carrying with us a colossal amount of highly unrealistic attire. And plenty of red wine. Entrance and parking was quick and painless. Our excellent tent assemblage impressed us both beyond belief and so off we smugly tottered to explore our provisional pastures. The hall was a spectacular backdrop to the as-yet unspoilt lea. The lake stage was already making very pleasing sounds and so we sat beside, in the lazy evening sunshine, and were delightful disturbed by jaunty individuals, who sat with us for hours, pinching my cigarettes and furnishing us with their vast musical opinion and cultural philosophies.
Having no comprehension of the time, it was only when we saw the crowds starting to congregate by the Satellite Stage that we realised it must be Lightning Seeds time. We headed down and listened intently to the weakened wizened voice of the lovely Ian Broudie; the people sang along to the Britpop choruses of a time passed, gone, but obviously not forgotten. (not me however, I was busy pulling apart what one can only describe as the worst veggie burger ever, sewed together by the minions of Beelzebub) but nevertheless, that feeling of a collective appreciation makes the heart race. Afterwards we wandered back stage and had a photo with Mr Broudie to whom I also voiced my polite applause. It was then that I turned to notice my accomplice deep in conversation with a gentleman wearing a silky red shirt; he had a wonderful soft belly, one which looked as if made entirely from port and cheese. I later discovered it was the man of the stunning hall, who had asked her if she fancied a look round the following day and offered access to some lovely fodder… excellent stuff. The sexy moon sat ruddy in the sky. Off next to hear Mr Scruff. The visuals - fantastic. The set, which I heard being described as “epic”, I was unfortunately less impressed with. I thought he could have done better- and so when I had heard quite enough I thrust a pointed index to the exit and demanded “we must leave”. The house party by now was rocking, in we slipped, and whilst wildly gesticulating to a chap named Charlie about my disappointment with the Scruff I tipped my receptacle of red wine all over myself and at this point realised it was time for a large slug of nightnurse and sleep.
The next morning I was astounded at the state of the toilets, they were unlike any toilet I had ever seen at day 2 of a festival before. Spotless, with a pyramid pile of toilet rolls, hot running water, clear mirrors (as opposed to those faded plastic ones) a queue of just 2 - and they were fresh faced young girls brandishing their toiletries - not swaying drunks clutching lukewarm cans of strongbow. A perfect start to our day. We had a wander around the ‘vintage’ market stalls. Was rather same-old. And I couldn’t help thinking that those who describe their dress as vintage, have become a parody of this very genre. They carry a gait which seems to pronounce their imaginary superiority, but they have become less than original, sporting colourful tattoos of glam 1950’s sailor girls, which they cannot translate the meaning of.
We went for a hot hog roast sarnie, which was delightful; except for the short stumpy girl behind the counter who took an instant disliking to me and scowled when I took a photo of the swine. A few of our friends were here also for day 2, and so we spent the afternoon drinking Heineken lazing on a massive patchwork quilt by the Satellite Stage, watching the revellers pass draped in Barbour. Badly drawn boy was beautiful and the legendary Buzzcocks had us squeezing each other’s hands whilst dancing a wobbly dance and grinning like simpletons. We later ambled around field 2 and found ourselves again in the house party rollicking like wild fire until the early hours. All in all, despite what appeared to be a humble turn out, for a 1st attempt, FOM Fest wasn’t too shabby.
Magenta Kate Edwards
Published on 24 May 2011 by magenta
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