Thursday, June 18th, 2009

And here at last I find myself in the land of the monsters (of rock). The land that social convention forgot. It’s a weird world full of ‘fucking people’ who are constantly ordered to raise their ‘fucking hands’. Everything here can be described aptly with the ‘fucking’ adjective. And it is. Fucking tents, fucking mosh pit, fucking costumes and fucking weather. Even the police and security are fucking.

The monsters ceremoniously dress themselves everyday before ritually leaving their canvas huts around two to stomp down to the large communal area, known as the main arena. Here they worship before a stage by ‘showing their horns’. The males jump and bump into each other until their noses bleed, while the females bare their breasts to please the male monsters amid primal screeches and howls.

There appears to be every kind of dress you can possibly imagine, including the monster with a rubber snake around his neck, a trio of mankinis, and one monster in a scary SpongeBob SquarePants costume. Yes you think you’ve come across every species, until a monster dressed as a fairy walks by. Here, blue and black dreadlocks and painted skeleton faces aren’t out of place, in fact, they’re part of the establishment and the strange looks are redirected my way, at my conventional mousy-blonde hair, natural-looking mascara and t-shirt and jeans.

You have to be careful, because surprises jump up and poke your eyes everywhere you look. This land is strange and surreal. A man in a chicken near the stage takes his own chicken head off and then waves it manically around in time to the music. It bobs about above the crowd, back and forth, frantically, until it’s finally launched onto the stage. The man in the headless chicken quickly joins it, before the security show him where the exit is.

I try to avoid ‘partying while I poo’, as instructed by the signs inside the toilets, by eating only dry carbohydrates such as potato and pasta, even though I’m cruelly tempted every step of the way by mouth-watering curries, yard-long hot dogs and onions or satan’s smoothies. Dominoes Pizza has a stall this year, and I see a Dominoes Soldier, in the heart of the land of milk, soft dough and pepperoni, guarding it from the onslaught of marching fiends armed with toilet rolls.

Much of my time is spent reading skin. Monsters' stories of dragons and mermaids, plus invitations to suck my cock. Also listening to the strange chants, such as the esoteric, “ostriches!” It’s shouted out into the darkness and straight away, from all sides, a rousing “ostriches!” is shouted back, as if it’s a familiar mantra.

Then there are the obscure games. Football’s far too bland for the monsters. Here, new games are invented, this one for example. A ball is tightly wrapped in a piece of cloth (or it could be bat’s gut) and is thrown into the air with the inexplicable cry of “Val Kilmer!” The monster who’s aiming to catch it shouts out “Saucy baguette!” and is awarded a “Yeah, Roy,” from the others if he manages to get it before it lands on the ground.

Meanwhile, the monkeys in the towers on the perimeter watch the monsters’ mayhem unfold, with each of their hands poised ready either side of their holsters. One to grab the walkie-talkie, the other, a banana. Because you never know when trouble or hunger’s going to strike. They’re the dullest monkeys I’ve ever seen, and possibly only a struggling zoo in Tajikistan would bother to house them permanently. They just stand still, hoping for some action in their fluorescent jackets, each with a number emblazoned across it. 901, 867, 432, 949. Like lottery balls waiting to be released, so they can bounce about and crash into each other too. Monkeys watching over monsters, but at least the monsters have names.

And I’ve since discovered that although the monsters are hard on the outside, they’re actually soft in the middle. Hard, hairy coconuts, who easily crack a smile and can’t wait to share a joke, game or an arm around you.

“ I lost the mask near the loos,” I hear someone say as they walk past my canvas hut, which neatly sums up my experience in the land of monsters. You see, I began to let go of all the social conventions. My mask was slipping. The hair styling went first, then the teeth brushing and finally I was free of all my inhibitions, and found myself sleeping buck naked in my canvas hut with the zip open. I’m now getting the urge to paint my face and show my horns. Finally, I truly have arrived in the land of the monsters (of rock).