Now, for those that know me, know all you have to do is give me a date and a time and I'll be there. Do not overload with information, do not ask for too much input as the answer will be yes but no I'm not actually listening. Simple right?
Well, as a Birthday present, some of my reprobate girlfriends bought me a ticket to Sunfall. The weekend of the festival arrived and I planned my journey to London. As it's come to light, the success to my travel arrangements only comes through if I am driving. Hello Sat Nav. So here is the first fuck up for the weekend…
This particular weekend my car was in the garage so, new mode of transport? Coach. Fine, I can do that you just get on a coach, sit listening to a screaming child for 3 hours, resist the urge to flick it and tell it to pipe the fuck down and voila, you're in London. Now here's where I seem to struggle... A) my location awareness of London is next to none. Plonk me anywhere around the city and all I'd be able to tell you is 'I'm somewhere in the capital'. B) I just can't seem to get trains/the tube right. On any level. To the Mother Hen, this is not new information. I have been getting trains very wrong since being a teenager. One phone call to the Mother Hen involved me saying 'So you know how Oxford Circus isn't in Oxford...well Loughborough Junction St isn't in Loughborough....it's in Brixton.' I could hear her eyes roll into the back of her head through the phone. Cue my 'I'm sorry. Don't be mad. Remember how cute I am' campaign.
So. Having got the coach to Victoria my girlfriends, who are also well acquainted with my shite train skills (Phoebe once had to wait 45 minutes for me at Waterloo when my journey to meet her should have been a mere 20 minutes) explained to me, head to the underground, get on the northern line SOUTH bound and get off at Clapham SOUTH. I believe their words were 'You can't get it wrong, ALL you have to do is get on the underground and head SOUTH'. Sure. No problem.
Safe to say, this is not what I did. I didn't get the underground to Clapham South. I panicked, told the train guy I needed to get to Clapham North so he put me on the last overground to Clapham Junction? Even now, I still don't know. Thank fuck for Uber is all I can say. From this point the wins vs the fuck ups began to even out. I finally had coffee from Shoreditch Grind, picked up some cookie dough from Naked Dough and firmly ignored the stop for Clapham North on my return journey.
So next step to the weekend? Sunfall.
With the Mother Hens advice echoing in my mind ("Don't get your nipples out and don't kiss strange boys") the morning was spent eating bagels, drinking rum and assembling an outfit that was firmly following the #FreeTheNipple movement. Sorry Mother!
Having rolled ourselves in glitter it was time to head to Sunfall. The following image was the first picture of the day and was definitely a sign of things to come. (Side Note: Phoebe (left) is sober Phil for the weekend)
Sunfall was incredible. Not too hectic, not full of kids and the music was amazing. As the day came to a close we left Brockwell Park and made our way to the nearest station, firstly stopping off for some roadies in the opposite shop. Under the offensive lighting of Sainsbury's entrance is where we said bye to Phoebe (huge mistake) and realised just how much of a state we were in. Whilst sat in a trolley, scoffing crisps, Jacky topping up her glitter and me reapplying my red lipstick, a guy from the year above us at school clocked us and wandered over to say hello. Me, in my beer haze, knowing just how drunk we were and likely to highlight our incompetency as human beings simply pointed at him, said 'Absolutely not' waving him back in the direction he'd come from. Fuck up avoided.
Next on the agenda? Make it to the after party. But first, it turns out we were to get a little distracted. Still desperately trying to apply my red lips whilst still scoffing crisps, I'm all of a sudden very aware of a guy asking Jacky for a glitter tutorial and another stood directly in front of me, firmly catching my attention. Now what was the second thing that the Mother Hen advised me not to do? At this point, I chose not to remember.
After successfully ignoring the second half of the Mother Hens survival tips, we made it to Village Underground where we spent the next couple of hours dancing our socks off until my desire for grub became far greater than the desire to drink more. Situating ourselves in a little kebab shop, I tuck into my wrap as Jacky finds herself being sat on by a rogue man child. At this point my hanger is just about kept at bay to entertain the fact that I now have to engage politely with other people. This did however pay off when one lad offered to exchange his entire burger for my half eaten wrap?! Confused but never one to turn down food, I accepted his offer. Immediate win.
Turns out he was less offensive than his mates and we spent a good amount of time talking about his girlfriend, job, life goals bla bla bla. Upon leaving, Jacky stumbles out after me and states "Gee, Paul is sharing the Uber with us as he lives in Clapham" to which I respond "Who the fuck is Paul?" scrunching up my nose and flinging my arms up in the air. Well ladies and gents, Paul happened to be the guy standing behind me, whose burger I had just devoured. I rolled my eyes at myself. Slight fuck up. And when I say slight, purely because (hopefully because) I will never see Paul again.
During an unnecessarily long wait for our Uber, a passer-by stopped to have what I initially thought to be quite a serious discussion. When I say passer-by I mean a total rare breed. The kind you only find wandering the streets of London past 4am. Turns out, the peak of the conversation involved him telling me (repeatedly) I should get my toes out. Excuse me? As in. My toes…Out? For you? No no. It’s at this point I really hammered home the fact I have super hairy, hobbit feet in the hope that he would leave us alone. It worked.
Finally. We made it home at around 5 am. As I go to climb into Jacky's bed I find Phoebe had laid out water, food and covered the pillow on my side of the bed with a towel as I'm the twat that always sleeps with my makeup on. All in all, I'd consider that weekend a win.
…seriously though, who the fuck is Paul?!