Right. Its that time of the year again you know when the cherry blossom blows her confetti all over the road, every thing around you is getting laid, the birds chirp earlier that sun sets later, the alcohol flows easier, the hangovers become a way of life, the parks fill up, London commuters may even grace you with a smile, clothes become less complex. It's generally a lovely time of year on Mud Island. The smell of, what my loss of cultural inheritance now calls a, BBQ, the sounds of laughter, the cursing of how your 'get in shape' new years resolution failed even though you could have sworn you vowed it a few days prior. But the best time of the year involves tents, bands, debauchery, a few chunders, the reminisce of your previous night in the form of UDI's (unidentified drinking incidents), which ungracefully form a map cautioning you of the regret you will have on Monday morning back in the office after a weekend of hippy loving free for all fornicating fuckery. Nevertheless, the more you think the more you drink.
So gumboots in hands, I shall pilgrimage off to the land of the unknown searching for the answers to a few days of the simple life where sheeps are painted an array of colours, where getting lost in the forest is a way of life, where the music is coaxing you into her abyss by sweetly seducing you with her subtle sexiness and where for 72 hours you are euphoric. I will be one of these people this year, I will be that person residing in a sweaty dirty tent with someone, groaning about how the noises in my head and constant throbbing have nothing to do with anything other than a lack of sleep and my views on cosmic affairs have now made themselves apparent after the remains of the previous nights altercations have yet to leave my head, all while other sweetly look at me emphasizing that they, in fact, too cannot comprehend the capacity of space or how our universe is nothing bigger than than one of the many grains of sand which have now taken residence on the floor of our tents and how it is insignificant in the greater scheme of things if we compare it to our surroundings we mean nothing. Bring of Festival fever.
So gumboots in hands, I shall pilgrimage off to the land of the unknown searching for the answers to a few days of the simple life where sheeps are painted an array of colours, where getting lost in the forest is a way of life, where the music is coaxing you into her abyss by sweetly seducing you with her subtle sexiness and where for 72 hours you are euphoric. I will be one of these people this year, I will be that person residing in a sweaty dirty tent with someone, groaning about how the noises in my head and constant throbbing have nothing to do with anything other than a lack of sleep and my views on cosmic affairs have now made themselves apparent after the remains of the previous nights altercations have yet to leave my head, all while other sweetly look at me emphasizing that they, in fact, too cannot comprehend the capacity of space or how our universe is nothing bigger than than one of the many grains of sand which have now taken residence on the floor of our tents and how it is insignificant in the greater scheme of things if we compare it to our surroundings we mean nothing. Bring of Festival fever.
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