August 22, 2017 in Category Scarlett Adventures...,Scarlett Life...,UK

Utter fucking bedlam.

So (quite literally last week) I got all deep and wrote about my experience with anxiety, taking up yoga and cutting back on alcohol. So it seems only right to follow it with a tale about how we got royally fucked up a couple of weekends ago and caused mayhem at Santa Pod. Did you really think this was going to turn into one of those preachy born-again arsehole blogs? You know me better than that. Back by (un)popular demand; utter fucking bedlam. 

It’s safe to say our first night at Santa Pod’s ‘Ultimate Street Car’ fezzy was an eventful one.

It’s rare I’m ever lost for words, but the utter fucking chaos of the evening rendered even me speechless as I  emerged, bleary eyed, to the carnage of our own making on the Saturday morning.

I was in a bad way. I staggered to the toilets, briefly checking in K’s tent that she was there in one piece. She was. Thank fuck for that. Somewhere in the chaos I’d lost my trainers, my phone and any last shreds of dignity and self respect. The toilet I only just made it to before I crumpled into a fetal position, was like something out of a horror film, but I was too hungover to care. When I got back to the camp my fella was sat there, trying to roll a joint despite having Parkinson-like shakes.

“Why does chaos always follow us around?”

“Ohhhh because we’re dickheads.” said K, as she crawled from her pit.

She was right.  

santa pod ultimate street car

Question: Is it ever OK to rob a portaloo at 4am and claim it’s for your disabled mate who doesn’t exist?

It believe it started with a throwaway comment as we cracked open our first drink once we’d based ourselves in the camp.

“If we had one of those portaloo’s over here this would be perfect…” mused someone that I’m 90% sure was my fella despite him taking absolutely no blame for planting the seed.

But that’s the problem with throwaway comments, they etch themselves into your brain only to come into fruition in the most chaotic of ways a few hours later when you’re all fucked up.

I didn’t actually see the whole sorry episode, or if I did I didn’t remember. But from what we managed to piece together the morning after the timeline of the evening went as follows:

  • 4.30pm: Live XXX show. Not nearly as exciting or filthy as it sounds – but more about that another time.
  • 6.30pm: Drag racing on the strip. 
  • 8.30pm: BBQ back at the camp
  • 10pm: Rave tent, fairground, general debauchery.
  • 1am: Night security come to ask us to turn the music down. The conversation went along the lines of, “hey guys can you turn the music do- ooh is that beer?” and they sat down and had a drink with us.
  • 1.30am: General pissed up antics.
  • 2am: One of the lads decides to get ourselves a portaloo.
  • 2.20am: Investigating the portaloo. We all stood round, silently scoping our new aquisition. The toilet in question, which incidentally was dragged on it’s side for 200 metres, was covered in human shit and had no toilet seat. “Well that’s shite isn’t it” said my fella, after a few minutes of silence, “we might as well get a decent one.” 
  • 2.30am: Second portaloo attempt. Imagine waking up to the sound of a truck burning the tyres out trying to rag a portaloo across a campsite without it falling over. Because that’s what maybe 50% of the surrounding area had to cope with. I told you we were dickheads. I should also mention we may have paid off the night security to turn a blind eye at this point – but it’s hardly surprising more security turned up.
  • 2.35am: Deny all knowledge. “What’s going on here then?” said one of the new security guards. there were mumbles of “nothing” across the camp. He looked at the truck, (which the lads had bailed out of and abandoned when they saw the security heading over) with it’s winch wrapped around a nearby portaloo. There was a silence. “Well fucking something’s going on, isn’t it.” 
  • 2.40am: All hell breaks loose. I can’t help but laugh looking back, but at the time it was just carnage. The security guards went into full power-trip bully mode and started ragging one of the lads round. The other lads started kicking off and we were one comment away from a full out brawl. The worst of the security were screaming something about kicking us all off the camp and getting us arrested for robbery, so, right on cue I decided I would “smooth things over” by being the bladdered voice of reason that nobody fucking asked for. “Now boys, don’t you think we’re being a bit dramatic” I said in my poshest voice, “it’s really more an issue of relocation than theft, don’t you think?”

Somehow that seemed to work, and the security let us off… or so we thought. I decided it was bedtime for me at that point, but there seemed to be another kick off later that night, as they say, nothing good happens after 4am.

The next day me and my fella dragged our hungover arses to the strip to see the burn out competition. We came back to, once again, absolute bedlam. The security had come back, kicked three of our lads off the camp and punched K in the face. Scumbags. Somehow we managed to stay another night, but it was mostly spent sitting by the fire wondering what the fuck had happened.

So what’s the moral of the story here? Your guess is as good as mine. But what can I say, we know how to have a fucking party.

Until next time… x

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