Before entering the 13th Gate of the Latitude Festival (it’s more than just a music festival), our group had the usual debate on whether we should take the red pill or the blue pill. We all plumped for the red one, and prepared ourselves for an obscene, mind-blowing, dimension-changing ride.
We sat at one of the picnic tables, studying the guide in a foolish attempt to plan the day. Suddenly I realised we were surrounded by strange, garish signs covered in warped writing that I could only just make out. “Does that say vegan burgers?” I asked our Driver. “Don’t tell me that! I don’t want to know about these things,” he replied in a panic-stricken voice. But I couldn’t help but stare. Call it morbid fascination, like when cars slow down on the motorway to check out a car crash.
The area was teeming with bright pink people holding the hands of dwarves who kept trying to break free of their grasp. They were obviously holding these dwarves against their will, but no one seemed to care. I was about to shout out “KIDNAP!” when the patchy-pink faces distracted me by starting to swell and pulsate. Perhaps they knew I was on to them. But they didn’t come over; instead they just kept on chewing and shoving this crazy stuff into their mouths. What looked like a pizza with spinach and chorizo, and…and, what was that? Was it really an oyster? One almost smothered itself with a 4-foot long baguette filled with grilled diplodocus, which had been smothered itself, in mint sauce.
We eventually managed to peel ourselves off the picnic table, leaving the map and the guide behind, as we realised it was designed to confuse and get you lost anyway, so why bother to carry it around all day? After all, getting lost is the prime objective for going to a festival in the first place, surely?
Just then a gang of geriatric fluorescent fairies flew straight into our group, as they marched forcefully towards the stage, leaving behind a broken pair of glittery deely boppers. Our Driver excitedly fished them out of the grass. “Yeah, I’ll be able to hear the music better now. At the moment it’s like I’m listening to it through a bog roll!” He then plonked them on his head and immediately began to dance with the energy of 10,000 Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles, while his hands created shapes, swirls and hypotrochoids. It was like he was a human spirograph. The band hadn’t even started yet.
So as not to attract too much unwanted attention, we decided it would be safer to venture further into the crowd. We passed 7 feet tall children, their faces covered in camouflage, which made them really stand out. We needed to get as far away from them as possible. Our group’s Tracker discovered a good spot deep into the throng. We stood there waiting, staring at the back of the heads in front of the stage, while the human spirograph made friends with an etch-a-sketch.
The Pet Shop Boys came on and started to perform on the tops of the people’s heads in front. Then suddenly the sight of a man’s naked arse flashed into view. Naked except for a fluorescent thong. A thong in the throng. The cheeks appeared to have a life of their own, as they wobbled, clenched and wiggled. At one point I could’ve sworn they were trying to communicate something to me, something that seemed important, perhaps the meaning of it all. Who are we? Why are we here? What does Pet Shop Boys actually mean? And I almost bent over to get a closer look.
But luckily the Jibber-jabberer of the group stopped me just in time to point out the amazing dancers to the right of the stage. They turned out to be the flags that indicate where the toilets are, fluttering in the breeze. But who’s to say they weren’t dancers? And are we human, or are we flags? I thought about that for a long while as I gazed at the human dancing flags, and then when I turned back to look at the stage, it hit me that the whole crowd was wearing tutus.
“’Ere guys, I can’t wait anymore for West End Girls, les go to the forest,” whined the human spirograph, who was now down to just his vest, even though it was spitting with rain. Then I realised that it wasn’t rain, it was his sweat. Acid sweat.
The human spirograph turned us into a human chain, so we at least had a chance of getting out of there. We stumbled, bounced and fell our way out of the pack of rodents, who were now foaming at the mouth at the thought of East End Boys. We’d got out just in time. They were about to go mad.
The forest was friendlier and calmer with just the distant sound of a DJ messing up a mix from Abba to Jay-Z. It was quieter as there was far less movement. I began to feel a lot more relaxed, when I noticed that the forest floor across from the path we were walking on was swarming with little furry animals. Mice, hamsters, ferrets, I couldn’t quite tell. I squinted further into the darkness of the trees, and saw silhouettes of people sitting and standing and bending over amongst the hamsters. One of these silhouettes, yet another fairy, beckoned us over.
But by that time our Driver had put his mac on and was ready to go back to the tent. We decided that the pills hadn’t worked, as we weren’t getting any effect from them. I mean, it was just your average festival experience. We realised that we should’ve taken the blue pill. Tomorrow, we decided, yawning, tomorrow we’ll take the blue one.
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