Why Bestival 2014 Was a Disappointment

A good and objective journalist, would have gone with the express intent of painting a broad and vivid picture of the Bestival, so meticulous you’d be cleaning glitter out of your body hair for days. But this was my festival, my £200 ticket, and as it always has been, the last chance for my friends and I to meet up and get royally twisted before scuttling back to our respective lives across the UK.

Growing up on the Isle of Wight meant growing up with a small, close-knit group of friends, slowly assembled from neighboring towns and villages over the course of my school life. Once University came around, some attended, some stayed and some travelled, but the Bestival was always an opportunity for us to come together again. One weekend to relive that brief moment of youth, when you’ve got all the optimism in front of you, a rocket up your arse and the deception of a disposable income. So why not get drunk, watch some excellent bands and go look for some acid in a field with your best friends?

My history with the festival goes back to its inception 10 years go. It was at the first one in 2004, when Fatboy Slim and The Basement Jaxx were almost eclipsed by a ride on the toboggan run, after I, at 15, was sold my first dose of magic mushrooms – by less than rigorous legal high stall; in 2006, when for one night I could swear Good Shoes, Jim Noir and everything in between definitely sounded like drum n bass, because what else was my 17yr old head supposed to think after it exploded with the clambering euphoria of it’s first ecstasy pill?; or perhaps one of my most overwhelming musical experiences: standing in the mud, mind chocked full of psychedelics, whilst My Bloody Valentine went full blown LINK Holocaust LINK and caused a synaesthetic orgy in my mind. Not to forget, seeing The Beastie Boys twice in one weekend. I mean come on, Twice. Admittedly I’d like to tell you about all the sweaty sex I had greasy tents, but that’d just be lies. I did have chlamydia at Lowlands once, that’s more or less the same thing.

This year I was not just attending out of habit though, I had actually missed the last two for financial reasons and, honestly, the line-ups didn’t provoke much remorse for not going. It was Outkast who sold me the ticket initially, but other than the music, the thing that sold this year to me, was the idea that it would be one last hedonistic yop with old friends, before I once again left the island for the greener pastures of student debt. I sold it to myself as some sort of nostalgic coming together of brethren, once united under the youthful pursuit of pleasure, but who now carve out their own identities in the persistent drudgery of real life.

Such a pompous and idealistic notion was only doomed to disappoint. This is what happens when you take the rosy tint of nostalgia and try to view the present in it. The selective memory of the past is overwhelmed by the ugly reality of the now. The amazing bands, illuminating experiences and the perpetual kindness of friends are fresh in the mind. However just as prominently as the lost possessions, excessive spending and opportunities wasted. Eventually though, they too will have the selective good fortune of retrospect.

It’s not that I was let down by my friends, the line up or myself, it’s just that I tried to force something that is now into the shape of what was then. Essentially what I have done is gone to see the sequel to a film and been let down that it wasn’t exactly the same as the first one, despite it still be a fucking amazing.

So next time I won’t try to relive memories, it turns out it’s a dam sight easier to create new ones, far less embarrassing nostalgic woe and, probably, far more interesting to read about too.

Whether I will be there next year though, I will leave the line up to decide.

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