TV Cabbage

We entered the site in convoy and Rob Lounge was on the gate. “Oh the dog is all right”, he said and waved us through. The dog was far from all right. We set up, sound check, everything is cool. Sean appears; “I want that fucking dog off my site now!” he snarls in his usual appraochable and friendly manner. Chip is laying in the shade chilling out. Dog like. Not wanting to antagonise an already harassed promoter I advise J to take her dog backstage to the crew area and tie him up. She completely ignores me; and does so all weekend. And Sean. And Rob. In fact she is blatantly and wantonly recalcitrant all weekend. The naughty girl. I say naughty but she is acually shit faced most of the weekend and doesn't give a flying fuck who she offends. Especially me or Sean Lounge. In fact we both come to represent the standard 'authority figures' that she can kick back against with her rather drugged up adolescent approach to life.

Speaking of drugged up adolescent shit faced approaches to life Jenny actually has a deep connection with a fellow soul brother at the festival; Sean Lounge himself. Over the weekend we all watch him getting more and more drugged up on coke, pissed up on alcohol and scarlet faced on whatever else he is on I can only guess. The geezer is in a right fucking state by the time we spot him as he storms across the field toward the dance tent, 10 or so security in tow, red faced and wild with charged up anger. He comes straight for me.

Now, we are just lazing in the sun chilling out; chatting, listening to some lovely music. I'm doing my job; making sure the DJ's come on at their allotted time and that the tent closes down when the license says. "I want that fucking dog AND that fucking woman off my site now!!" he bellows in my face. His breath stinks and I have really and finally lost all respect for him due to his rather errant behaviour over the weekend."That dog is down the food area jumping up on tables and eating food off peoples' plates. That Jenny is staggering around pissed and is not controlling that animal at all. She is part of the tVC crew. You control her. You are responsible for her. The security are now going to throw out", he wildly gestures with his hand towards the dance tent, "that lot!" Some, what we would call 'free spirits' or 'traveller types' or 'trance heads' are lounging on the farm grass doing nothing to no-one. The security move in trying to corral the hippy scum for expulsion. They, of course, obviously, fail and embarrass themselves and awaken a sense of injustice in the torporic sunned up revellers. "Leave them alone" they say. "They're not doing any harm". Quite why Sean has decided to take this course of action is anyones guess. The head of security whispers in my ear that he has been a fucking nightmare all day. Later Sean is, er, ushered into an ambulance and whisked off to the first aid tent. He had collapsed. "Exhausted".

By this time, in the dance tent, one of the "DJ's" had blown up a few of the bass bins by overdriving the sound (duh!). I was over in the food area grabbing some lunch when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said in my ear; "I think one of the speakers is on fire in the dance tent". This prompted yet another unstoppable series of Laural and Hardy-esque farces involving Ramsden leaving site in his van to pick up some more bass bins and sneaking in a few of his chums only to be caught by the Lounge Gestapo; obviously it involved another blasting from the increasingly deranged Sean. Wearing me down. Making me responsible for the behaviour of everyone who walks near the dance tent. Not nice. Not good.