SECRET FALAFEL HEAVEN

AFTER having spent the best part of a week [literally and metaphorically] in a field somewhere in the Cambridgeshire area, suffice to say that a fair few things were learnt [and lost] at the not-so-secret Secret Garden Party.

ONE] I'm ageing before my time/everyone else has been told something I haven't.
           What I mean by this is that I was exceptionally surprised at how dark the atmosphere was in comparison to last
           year's frivolities.  Rather than papiermaché penguins and walking ice cream beings, the fields were littered with
           canesters and people lying on the walkways, not moving or breathing.  Far from an exaggeration [and there are
           plenty of witnesses, albeit ones dressed as snow-white-dwarf-nuns], this was a reality, one which seemed to
           be worse than at any other festival myself or my friends had been to, which can only mean one of three things:
                               a] I'm turning into a full-blown stubborn old lady, complete with grey hair and a love for herbal tea. [fact
                                   and fact]
                               b] Everyone apart from me has been told that the world's going to end at the end of this week, so
                                   "numbness" and "stupor" should become our two new favourite words.
                               c] People are actually insane. [Looking around me at SGP I am inclined to sway towards this one]
           I may be wrong here, but i've always believed that the fun has 1oo% stopped once the person has stopped
           moving and breathing.  NOTE: This is merely an observation and not a dig at anyone who spent the entire
           weekend blissfully unconscious.

Here's a relatively sane-looking man supporting my band H E A R T S in the crowd for Blondie.

Here are the bones of a dinosaur in the crowd for Blondie.

TWO] I love falafel.
           I mean, a lot. Whilst this might not come as a mind-blowing revelation, I have to say that this statement manifested
           itself in the form of an addiction at SGP. It wouldn't be a lie to say that I spent a lot of my time on the right-hand
           side of the foody field, thinking about the right hand side of the foody field, and walking to the right hand-side of
           the foody field [where the temple of Falafel was]. This would only have been OK if:
                            a] I hadn't paid nearly £2oo to go to a music festival, to see bands and things,  and
                            b] It's normal to eat the same thing for four days nearly twice a day.
           Ask me anything about this festival and i'll be able to tell you that the Falafel was good.

See that boy on the left? This is literally what my face looked like every day.

THREE] SLOW CLUB are really rather good.  Being one of the four bands that I saw last weekend [a pitiful attempt at
               broadening my musical horizons] they really managed to sweep me into the festival mood [whatever that
               really is] and kept my attention and intrigue for the entire set.  Great use of male/female vocal harmonies
               [my pet love band-wise at the moment] and a girl drummer at the front of the stage who could actually play the
               drums whilst singing  incredibly well, not the standard obligatory, pointless girl-at-the-front with the meg-white
              esque snare.  One last surprising thing about this band is the fact that they sound noticeably better live as
              opposed to recorded, and by that I mean less twee, with the vocals really standing out powerfully.  I'd
              reccommend cathing them live if you have the opportunity, so I've sought out their forthcoming dates which you
              can find HERE .

Narcolepsy at its most musical.

So there we are.
Another week, another band, another thing learnt and some wellies lost.
Smashing.
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