On day 2 of the Reading Festival I was particularly looking forward to watching Seasick Steve on the main stage. He was due to rock from about 1:30ish (forgive the rough timings) and I thought I would appreciate his blues, rock, awesomeness with a nice pint of four pound Tuborg and, a quite convenient, lunchtime sandwich (another seven pounds spent but this time on a cheeky bacon and egg baguette to include the vinegary fluorescent red excuse for tommy k that is always served at this kind of social outing – Hienz it was not!!!).
There was a mass throng of movement towards the mainstage. The man known as Seasick (to his mates???) had an early set and I must admit I would have been a little happier if his greatness was rewarded with a later timeslot but organisers of these festivals are a fickle bunch and although the main stage slowly filled with people of all ages to watch the bearded guitarist, 130 (ish) was the time to do it, like it or miss it (unless you were prepared to settle for I-Player when you returned home Monday – for which I was not).
We loitered about nearer the back of the crowds and I watched the set whilst happily chomping on greasy bacon and a rubbery baguette (the tommy k was strangely satisfying) and guzzling my third pint of the day. I was a happy man. Seasick Steve was flicking his way through his homemade guitar selection and yelling at us (musically) that ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’. I was in heaven and as I looked around me, I realised I was not the only one.
Throngs of people (as I said, of all ages) were dancing, drinking and smiling. Kids (and when I say kids I mean anything from 16 to 18) were watching Seasick next to older revellers. Everyone was enjoying themselves, beer in hand and I wondered why this good natured peaceful drinking in such large crowds does not happen on your average Saturday night out in Swindon town centre?
The reason – Chav Wankers.
Swindon is not unlike Reading. A soulless, grey, monstrosity that has slowly grown since the late 70’s (early 80’s???) from young vibrancy to Chav filled shite-hole. The buildings are grey and old (and due to be knocked down) or old and grey (and due to be given ‘listed building’ status). BHS and Primark have both moved three or four times in the twenty years I have lived here but still remain shit shops… We have no Fat Face and Animal was here but went out of business because they sell expensive hoodies and they got more stuff knicked than bought (lets return to the Chavs).
Over the last thirty or forty years streams and streams of people (not just in Swindon but all over Britain) have taken from society. As decades have passed and generations have bred (bred, not bread…) these same people have turned a once considered ‘helping hand into a ‘I expect this money and am willing to punch your face off if you don’t give it to me’.
With this slow change in attitude has come a reluctance to accept personal responsibility and a belief that everyone owes them something. They value respect as long as it is aimed at themselves (yet they are unwilling to return that simple and most basic of social favours and again will kick your face off if you don’t agree). These people would petition the EU Court of Human Rights (if they knew what it was) because it’s unfair they have to sign on at 10 o’clock on a Tuesday morning and that is when Jeremy Kyle is on.
These are the lowest class of people but where other countries have ‘the poor’, the U.K have a class of citizens called Chav Wankers and don’t go all ‘lordy-dordy’ on me. I am not criticizing people who need help because they have fallen on bad times, I’ve signed on myself and can fully appreciate the dole system (I know it’s not called that these days – fucking Job Centre Plus… whatever), I’ve claimed and I am not ashamed to admit it. I’m on about the gits who take the piss. I’m on about the little twats who call getting their money ‘pay day’, I’m on about the Chav Wankers who get this money, walk into the nearest Wetherspoons and blow the lot on cheap beer only to loiter around bus stops and mug old ladies because they cant afford to pay their rent.
And while the rest of us have to tolerate this type of person every time we walk around the town centre because the Police wont do anything about the vermin, shops are closing because nobody comes to town any more… We’re all shopping on the internet… I wonder why. There may be an app for everything but I have yet to see one that threatens to stab you while you surf Amazon…
O.K… Breathe… One… Two… Three… That’s better. Sorry for getting carried away. Where was I? Oh yes, Reading Music festival and me championing them for there ability to keep Chavs out.
So lets return to all the revellers, thousands of them. Most are on their second or third pint (I know this is a generalisation) and you can take for granted that the later the days gets, the more beer will be drunk. Later on, as the headliners The Strokes, finish their set the fields and tents of Reading Music Festival, like every other main festival in the British summer, will fill of drunk, stoned and sober people. Girls will giggle as boys try to smooth their way in and the same throngs of sober people who flooded the arenas will return to their tents (hotels… A-hem!!!) to sleep off the drink.
And have I ever seen anyone fight at a festival?
No!, NEVER!
Can you imagine any town centre being filled with so many drunken people and there not being a fight? Of course you can’t. There is more chance of seeing a chav in a suit who was not on his way to court. Imagine the mayhem in a town centre with tens of thousands of drunks filling the pubs and clubs.
Yet Reading (or any other mainstream festival) is exactly the same in terms of revellary, drink, loud music, girls and boys (vying for the attention of said girls). You have the nutters who want to stay up all night to par-tay. You have the drunken old men who want nothing more than to get to bed. You have the kebab dribbling gobshites, laughing loudly as they discuss the best bit of the day. You have the queues of people holding pizza boxes whilst waiting for a cab. Its all the same as an average town centre on a Saturday night but with no fighting.
And that can only be attributed to Chav Wankers.
I know for a fact that the Social have yet to grant moneys for Festival tickets and maybe it is only time before some ridiculous government do-gooder decides to make a name for themselves by raising the fact it is inherently unfair that Chavs miss out on such important British traditions. It may only be time before these fuckers invade our festivals with free tickets paid for by the tax payer and when that happens fights will start at festivals and I will stop going to them. I may have to deal with Chav Wankers on a daily basis in my normal life but Festivals are like your average holiday to Sorrento – a break from the rat races we live, a break from Chav Wankers.
Chav-tastic
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