Pistol fingers and prosecco in the pissing rain…

Being, as I am, both lazy AND opportunistic, I am not the sort of person who sits patiently at a keyboard F5-ing furiously to bag tickets for ‘things’, preferring to live hopefully and vicariously through the luck of others, deftly side-lining obstacles and taking the hit on missing out entirely. In another life I would probably have been one of those cheeky little fuckers who risks hospitalisation trying to vault the wall into Glastonbury, but like I say, I’m LAZY AF. I’d more than likely just sit and wait for someone to turn up with some bolt cutters or a fucking great ladder, gaining access just in time to catch the last fifteen minutes of Muse* and then spend seventeen hours trying to get out.

It’s a common theme throughout my life. I am very much an ‘ARGH, FUCK, I NEED TO DO THIS IMMEDIATELY’ kind of person, as opposed to a patient planner. A bloke in the pub once told me that those kind of people die of heart attacks. He also told me that he could predict my future by looking at my little finger. I don’t think he was a medical professional.

And, as you know dear reader, I am also very greedy. And somewhat fond of the booze (I’m rendering myself unemployable with every word I type, aren’t I? Bugger) and have been working in Marlow for the last year. So when you add all these slightly dubious qualities together, you’d imagine that I’d be the absolute target market for the latest enterprise of Marlow’s adopted son, Celebrity Chef and Incredible Shrinking Man, Tom Kerridge – Pub in the Park.

Pub in the Park is, simply put, a weekend of eating, drinking, live music and ‘Christ, I hope the weather holds’ revelry, located in and around Higginson Park – an area of recreation most famous for the Marlow Regatta (an event that sounds terribly middle class, but is actually responsible for most of my back catalogue of vomiting and public nudity) and filling every parent within a twenty-mile radius with dread. It’s located right alongside the River Thames, which *technically* should make it a most picturesque location for duck feeding, swing-pushing and learning to ride a bike. However, in my (albeit limited) experience, it’s a world of impending head injuries, the disapproving looks of other parents and vicious, overfed psycho-gulls, whose sole existence is to potentially blind children with their massive bastard pointy greedy fucking beaks. As you might gather, it’s not my favoured location for a relaxing afternoon with a lychee martini and some overpriced pulled pork.

At the end of last week, thousands of earnest people with too much time on their hands and several internet connections spent the morning desperately trying to bag tickets for Pub in the Park, in spite of having seen the line-up and the fact that each £25 ticket only gives you access to four hours of park dwelling. Which – when you see who is performing – is probably quite enough for anyone’s endurance levels, but certainly not enough to achieve the levels of intoxication required to cope with Toploader half-arsedly performing ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ at four in the afternoon in a windy park, while avoiding marauding killer swans. 

I was not one of these intrepid multi-device refreshers. I literally couldn’t be arsed. And I was busy. And did I mention that I couldn’t be arsed?

That said, I am now experiencing some low level inner conflict. Even though I genuinely cannot think of anywhere worse to spend a Sunday night than in a chilly park, because…

  1. I am in my forties and Sundays are for tending to ones hangover with a restorative beverage, feeling emosh and watching the Antiques Roadshow.
  2. The last time I did it, I was shitfaced out of my box on Gin in a Tin, shaking my arse to a Spice Girls Tribute Act in the pissing rain. And NOTHING can top that as an experience.

I am actually finding the idea of an al fresco audience with Fun Lovin’ Criminals, while clutching the dregs of a fifty quid bottle of Prosecco and waving my iPhone torch around ironically to 10CC, rather appealing. I literally couldn’t give two shits about the celebrity chefs and kimchee burritos, but BY GOD, I feel that Huey Morgan would thoroughly enjoy the sight of a sticky-haired middle-aged woman in DMs swaying from side to side and doing pistol-fingers in the air at an hour when most parents are telling bedtime stories.

So, if anyone fancies dragging a drunk, lazy, unsteady-on-her-feet, opportunistic gobshite of a middle-aged woman to Pub in the Park on Sunday 21st May, give me a shout yeah? I’m a dab hand at sneaking vodka past security and know all the best places to take a sneaky wee. I am near indispensable in all potentially drunken situations.

I’m practically a Swiss Army Pisshead.

*What’s the actual score with Muse, btw? Origin of Symmetry is old enough to do its fucking A-levels. I think they can probably give it a bloody rest now, eh?

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