Hot n’ sticky down at the pod.

Somebody needs to have a word with the bods at the Pod, I’v been half a dozen times, and they only have two temperatures. Last year I sat up in the stands for a while, and I was shivering so hard that every photograph I shot had camera shake. This year was as hot as hell.

I sat perched on the open tailgate of the car applying Ambre Solair, wondering why so many lad’s insist on wearing indigo denim on days like this. Lee slapped some spf30 on the back of neck, and told me to hurry up.

Santa Pod has a strange smell about it, like diesel fumes and burnt dog hair. That chap that likes the sound of his own voice was prattling away into the atmosphere, entertaining not a soul. While desperate owners wound themselves and there engines to the point of detonation, in the search for quarter of a mile of glory.

A stripey red van was dispensing Red Stripe in frosted cans at daft prices, to overexposed pastey british bodies. A southerner was taking the soft option, doubling up with a can of fosters, and a can of sprite, to build his own shandy.

The faint wisps of cloud wofted across the sky and made pretty patterns to reflect in the acres of glossy paintwork on display. It was at this point that the macadam started to melt, and so did I.

The Fireforce jet trolley fucked off over the horizon, and everybody went home.

Festival 2005 Gallery

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