All tommorows hangovers

---

Please note this blog entry was written a little while ago, i just didn't add it due to having too much fun! etc....

Right.

So this morning we leave for Europa. Everything up until now has merely been build up to our real holiday. So three weeks + a bit, of non-stop mahem, sightseeing etc etc etc, and apparently we’re not even on holiday yet. Ta. In light of which I should probably update all on the pre-holiday shenanigans. We finished our adventures up North, which had been considerably less boring and slow than predicted, climbing York Minster once again being a considerable highlight. We then nipped down to London, getting lost in Rugby along the way (this is not as pleasant as it sounds, although at least no rucking was involved). We had to go back to the airport to return the hire car, so after another Heathrow induced nervous breakdown we headed back into town, taking the customary two hours (ahhh). The next few days were spent doing preparatory shopping and the like, before heading out for Birthday drinks (for my 24th) with a bunch of fellow drunks down Shoreditch way. Caught up with one or two old chancers and drunk perhaps silly amounts of beer and tequila before heading off for the weekend with Abbie, Brooke, and Ella….

The next few days were spent at the legendary All Tomorrows Parties festival. This entailed a fair amount of blood, sweat, vomit, and just a smidgin of drone rock. The weekend was held in an English holiday camp on the south coast very near Hastings (one of the local towns is called Battle, as in Battle of….). For those of you unfamiliar with English holiday camps a small amount of explaining may be in order. Unlike campsites or caravan parks, the English have a sense of scale, perspective, and most of all, taste. The camps in question are thus similar in size, décor, and ethos to either concentration camps, or perhaps Stasi-era communist East Germany. This particular Pontins fitted 3000 Indie kids, all suitably dressed in the regalia of their particular sub-sub-sub (you don’t even know about it you lame mainstream bastard stop looking at me) -culture.

What ensued was ever so slightly more controlled chaos than the average festival. For the uninitiated this meant spending three days drinking heavily, chatting to Germans (suspicious given the aforementioned camp layout methinks), eating chips on the local beach, and being regaled with the sub-Spice Girl/ Girls Aloud/ welcome to the slag-heap stylings of a group of local teenage girls, who upon noticing us responded with a barrage of insults and threats, before returning to their ‘dance routine’. In between times we did actually watch some bands. TV on the Radio, a polished Yeah Yeah Yeah’s, your mate’s lovely mum Vashti Bunyan, and a vodka swilling bi-polar hermaphrodite by the name of Devendra Banhart being obvious highlights. I also got extremely pissed off with the idiotic frontman of Magic Eyes, bored of the drony, shouty NYC stylings of many on the Saturday, but hey that’s the way these things go….

Before being ejected from the train home due to the bizarre vagaries of the British Railway System (an oxymoron if ever their was one), we sat in by far the smelliest train carriage this side of New Japailguri, exhausted and content, drinking English ‘Coffee’ happy in the knowledge that we have now fulfilled the great pilgrimage of Indie, and that, like visiting Mecca, we are only required by Allah to do it once (well untill the middle of winter, did you know they have a new site and Thurston Moore is curating and and and....).

---