Notes From the Beer Festival
This is a collection of notes that we took in our more sober moments. Sadly the misspelling and the times of great laughter during writing can’t be expressed directly. All timings are approximate-ish. The bits in black are my additions as I type this up; the purple bits are my ramblings; and the orange bits are Moosh’s.
Friday Night:
I’m sticky and it’s only 7.27pm
It’s quite strong. Darwin’s Extinction Ale. We probably shouldn’t drink too much more of this. 8.3% 7.33pm
It doesn’t go down as easily as others.
It’s like a piece of fruitcake you really don’t want.
I smell grass and beer. Not the grass one smokes! Cigar too!
Surrounded by people standing! 20.21pm
Really needed that piss! So does Moosh right now.
Xylophone buggery – We Win. 00.44
“I wouldn’t be a tosspot if you fisted me more often.” 00.55
We still win xylophone buggery.
Moosh laughed until she cried. I just farted. Badly. It really fucking stank. She laughed some more. 1.28am
Saturday:
Tea. 7am. Followed by Mika.
Checking my sleeping bag for the wristband – I only managed to discover that it smelled of farts. Contained farts. We laughed at this. Alot. Again.
Saturday morning – lovely day. Damp. much farting all around.
I ache everywhere. And feel either sick or just hungry.
No, it’s hunger.
There was an overestimation of the amount of spillage with the Tesco breakfast. (with no fried eggs)
3-2 already. 9am
I *really* need to wash my windscreen.
We are faffing queens.
10.10 – I do not, nay, will not smoke any more fags!
11.30 – Pantyliner cache found.
The horse racing saga-serial continues.
12.00ish – I’m sure there’s an ant in my bum.
We then read out the previous writings. And laughed again at the amount of farting. It was good. 11.55am
12.08 – Harnessed beer farts to inflate the lilos would be nasty to deflate. Worse than contained beer farts in a sleeping bag!
1.22pm – Tom NOT the barman appears all in black.
“You have to suffer for your man love”
In a moment of brilliant timing, Moosh starts to say: “They just happen…” and then belches loudly. I find this amusing. so much so I can’t record it here. [in the notepad] She then joins in on the much mirth. Before long we are laughing ourselves silly and she says: “I can’t hold my sphincter!” More laughter.
4.15pm – In the George Inn
After some extremely hot cheesy chips and burp-inducing cider, it was decided to return to the RV to do some juggling. My audience of one is going to laugh and fart whilst this is going on.
[Except we never did do that. We tried to walk to a mates house, that she said was only 10 minutes walk. We walked for ten minutes and got nowhere near her house. This was sad, as we couldn’t then leave her a scribbled note through her door. Oh well. We didn’t get sunburnt thankfully,which was a strong possibility due to lack of lovely shade on many occasions. Nor were we run down thanks to speeding motorists.]
Sunday
Some time in the morning [Sunday morning, very early, with me in the tent and Moosh nowhere to be seen. With someone *cough* (edited out, sorry) somewhere]
Overheard: “Oi! You there! You on the green! Please do not make love on the green!”
6.50am – A warmer and slightly less uncomfortable night marred by snoring and ‘other’ noises. Some people have carried on all night with their chat, laughter and music.
I appear to be a touch shaky. But warm, so far. And not in dire need of the loo. Unlike several other times overnight.
7.13am – Dew on tent = Tent Gravy.
And that is about all we recorded. We probably would have done more, if we were programmed to so do. But we’re crap like that.
Tags: Frocester+Beer+festival, farts, camping, sleeping+bags
Frocester, faffing and farting
I can honestly say that Frocester Beer Festival is indeed the best beer festival I’ve ever been to (not that I’ve actually been to any others, but it is excellent nonetheless)
It’s got everything you could possibly need there: beer, music, tents, flushing loos, more beer and so on. The weather was perfect for camping too and we really did make the most of the 2 day summer whilst we were there. If we’d listened to Ray Mears more, we would have collected the early morning dew off the tent to take a shower in…but given that I actually live only about 5 miles away, we snuck back there for a shower there. Yes, I know it’s cheating, but meh.
Trying to put everything back in chronological order in my head is actually quite tricky – which is why Bea had the rather fortuitous plan of bringing a notepad to jot down things as they happened to remind us what we did. I’m hoping that might materialise into a post at some point? Hmm?
For some reason, I remember Friday better than Saturday (I’d say I was quite pickled by the Saturday, tbh) On the advice of the guy I bought tickets from, I got up early and pitched the tent about 10am on the Friday and then went home to faff and pick ‘er up. Actually by the time I picked ‘er up (and had an untimely trip to Thornbury because some madman had shot at some police on the M5) there was barely time to settle into the tent and head off to the festival.
We were thoroughly over excited about the free beer mugs, the choice of beer, the toilets, the token system, the music and just about everything. The only thing we didn’t get excited about was the food – it was pants. Being a veggie always limits my choices somewhat – but the veggie burger was like eating a load of oniony slop. The thought of having to eat these burgers (as that was the only culinary choice there was) for 2 days made us sad.
Upon going for a dance we bumped into (literally) a load of people I knew and there was much rejoicing. Unfortunately the strict licensing law they have there makes them close at 11pm. Which is obviously far too early! We’re used to being chucked out of Cafe Rene about 3am ish so 11pm now seems like the middle of the day.
Back at the campsite and suddenly everyone was lolling around laughing, farting and generally having a laugh. I got out the solar lamp thingy at this point and started directing planes which pleased me no end. We collected someone called Andy along the way, and trooped off to find Hayley and the rest of the gang we found earlier by shouting “Hayley!” randomly until we did actually find her tent.
Saturday followed and there was much more farting and shouting of cuntyflaps. This is where my memory fades a bit. I remember a breakfast with no fried eggs, (pure madness) some shorts buying, (my other ones made me look mumsy, I was convinced) a shower, some cider, some Not Poodles, some more cider, some stodgy chips with cheese, a walk to leave a strange drunken message at a friend’s house nearby, (not completed) some beer, lots of people wanting to buy/steal/try on our Russian hats, more beer, more people I knew, more beer, more dancing, more farting, more beer, more bringing planes in, Choco Boy, Andy, some lager, that Polish chap with the beard and a sock on his head, naked rugby, (more like a load of men just running naked across the cricket pitch) being cold, going home.
Moosh
Tags: Frocester Beer Festival, Frocester, Ray Mears, Cuntyflaps, Choco Boy, Naked Rugby
Productive
I had some time off in lieu yesterday, and surprised myself just how productive I can be.
I:
- Got up before 10 am
- Had a rather excellent wank. No, this didn’t involve any Vicks Vapo Rub (the mind boggles at some of the searches on this site. Honestly people – sort it out)
- Went on a 5km bike ride (and didn’t get wet)
- Cleaned out my car (anyone who’s been in my car lately will understand why I took out 2 bags of rubbish just to see the floor)
- Made lunch, which involved pesto
- Tidied the kitchen
- Cleaned cat piss off the floor. Grrrr.
All that, and *then* I went into work and fixed a laptop that they were going to take to PC World (good god, no!)
I think I deserve a star for that, or at least a big pay rise.
I instead found out that the first redundancy notice has been served. Yep – things are quite dire here at weird community charity. We have no funding past January. Should I jump now or wait for mine? After all I am entitled to the princely sum of £600 redundancy money. Woo! Think of the beer.
Talking of beer – the countdown to beer now stands at 3 days. Yep: we’re off to Frocester Beer Festival! And we’re camping. I can’t wait quite frankly, as all my thoughts lately have been about a) how autumny it is and b) how I could murder a certain person to get my mortgage paid off. Yes, it’s terribly bad manners and potentially quite messy but with the money I’d save not paying the mortgage – I could buy a really shiny car.
Well, I’m all out of muses – I’m off to waste some time at B3ta.
[EDIT: I forgot to mention! I’ve also booked some flights to go to Bratislava and then Riga, so 2 more capital cities are to be mine. Mwahahahaha]
Moosh
Tags: Excellent wanks, Pesto, Redundancy, Frocester Beer Festival
To the bar!
When first discussing the vodka picnic, it was poo-pooed by herself. But I can honestly say that vodka, cheese, bread, hummus and crisps go together exceedingly well (as Mr Kipling would say)
It was scheduled to kick off at 3, but considering the shocking public transport in Gloucestershire it had to be postponed. Three fucking buses from Cirencester to Stroud?! They’re having a giraffe, surely? Nope. Just three. *shakes fist because Stroud doesn’t have London frequency bus timetables*
Even once I’d got to Gloucester, there was much more flapping required and a death stare from the woman who works opposite my workplace as I opened the gates. With my key. Because I’m allowed to do that. The forgotten vodka and cups were duly picked up and we made our way to Asbad’s. (Or Asda’s to the uninitiated)
Olives were pondered over and the ones without chilli were chosen, although this turned out to be a lie. There was *definately* chilli in those olives…unless we were both having vodka-induced hallucinations? Meh.
We also went to the trouble to decant the vodka into non-vodka bottles because we were paranoid about drinking in public and all those silly by-laws. We needn’t have bothered, as loads of people were quite openly drinking in the park. Arse.
A smashing picnic was had by all, we were on a drinking par. In the zone as it were. The need for dancing/movement was beginging to build, and so we went back to ‘er house for some more faffery, a change of clothes and to listen to Mika very quietly.
For some reason, we decided to still lug around the smashing straw picnic bag (minus the cheese) and skipped off to Cafe Rene. It was it’s usual lovely self and we made the most of the evening by sitting outside on our lugged around blanket, which was then nabbed by a gay man, who felt the need to tell us he was gay. Okaaaay.
I can’t believe that we actually missed the fireworks that we were actually going to watch. Oh well, upon further discussion neither of us actually gave too much of a fuck about them and were just humouring the other one. Hooray for communication! Well done us 😀
It was somewhere around here that the evening deteriorated. We went inside, drank more beer and remembered that the barman was actually that one from ages ago that made us that, quite frankly, bloody awful drink of tequilla and tropical fruit (don’t do it) And there was much rejoicing.
And just incase after that you were thinking, Mmmm tequilla and tropical fruit juice – that sounds nice! Here is a picture of Mr Barman who may mix it for you:
Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you realise that it actually just tastes of tobbacco.
We were also joined by the Polish contingent at this point and faffed about dancing and drinking until for some reason it all got a bit weird, and there was even an arguement about who bought their phone first. Honestly – it has to be one of the most pointless debates I’ve ever had, and had I been sober I would have just laughed. I think I may have learnt an important lesson on Saturday night…possibly. It has something to do with drinking, but the moral stance escapes me now.
I got home at about 5.30am – it was getting light. I realise now that there was much more tomfoolery going on in the graveyard outside than my mind remembered. Just for the record, it was not me engaging in tomfoolery, it was *cough* somebody else.
Moosh
Tags: Cafe Rene, vodka picnic, barmen
Nothing (much) To Report 
