.Not Today Satan, Not Today.

Domingo 17 julio,

New and reduced Zara jumpsuit on, Amazing Toko bubble tea in hand, clambering onto the RENFE with the BEST company, psyched to be  A GODMOTHER !!!!!!! and Beni-bound.

Smooth arrival, cordial taxi drive, an unfortunate rip in Flora’s trousers but nothing was bringing us down.

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Sun strong, arena filling up, pricey drinks tokens in hand, anticipation at an all-time high.

Fidlar rocked it, Jess Glynne killed it with a smashing set and a Prince tribute which stole my heart. I’m now forever loyal.

Time for Mac Demarco. It was not the intimate setting I had imagined first seeing him perform in, but right at the front, the big stage would do.

Barley through his first verse, someone heckles for the removal of ‘THE SHOE’. Slightly confused, still happy enough.

Spanish teen with Mr. Demarco on his iPhone lock-screen next to me lights up a crumpled Marlborough Gold that he had probably been saving for this very moment. He’s ready to vibe. Less enthused but fair, feel it.

Until…

Spanish teen decides he’s going to start pushing and use me as a head rest for his smoking-self. Someone is still shouting for the shoe.

Out of nowhere, shoe-guys girls appear and, like the snotty child I seem to have been charged with, proceed to light-up God-knows-what. The situation could not be less ideal and enthusiasm has hit rock-bottom.

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Okay Mac, when are ya gonna play Chamber of Reflection because I don’t know how much more of this I can ta-Hey chica, Shannon is not your climbing frame and Ingrid is definitely not your ashtray. For the love of good music and live performance, STOP TRYING TO MAKE SHOE HAPPEN. IT IS NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN.

My lover (one of many imagined lovers) is not done yet but we are out of there. Good riddance Felicia.

So begins the decline…it’s not even midnight. Shave as we try, there are still at least seven lonnng hours stretching out in front of us, surrounded by jesters and drunks in the dominion of a devil having a field day with their idle hands. A cup of beer or a plate of rice thrown across a sweaty crowd never gets old. Hilarious.

2AM, chill is setting in, rants are drying up. I’ve just about recovered from my most jarring and disappointing public experience to date. The sounds of  Massive Attack make their way over to  our safe-haven on the grass.

4.30AM, delirium is upon us. Snakehips plays whilst I savour my second Navidul Jamon sandwich of the trip, I feel better. We’re playing ‘I spy’, I’m sharing my prospective baby-names between rounds. Friends come and go, the minutes slope on by.

Shivering on a bench, unanimously, we agree that the FIB experience was, well, an experience. Glad for it but honestly, not one to be repeated. I mean, I was pretty sure we were in Spain but-if not for the ride from the station-had someone let slip that the train, unbeknownst to party-goers travelling from Valencia had been re-routed to Weston-super-Mare, I’d have believed them. Not really what I had envisaged in the end.

Pictures ceased as the hoards maddened so here are some memories of 8pm’s sweeter times.

I can’t wait to welcome Pickle John Lopez and Sanitiser into the world when my time comes to be a mumma.

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