Part 3 of 3 – The Failing Economies of the Mediterranean States in the Eurozone

Sunday morning peered it’s not so sunny head over the shoulders of a late (but sobre) Saturday night. I was tired but that is to be expected at a music festival – the miles you walk add up quicker than the calories in a 12 inch meatball and cheese subway, with fries, full fat coke and M&M Cookie.

Not that I was to be down about it, Sunday was also the day Muse headlined the main stage and to say I was excited... well it would be the understatement of understatements. I have seen Muse several times now and each time I have been very drunk. But today I had decided against the perils of drinking heavily all day – today I would see my favourite band sober.

Importation:
I’d spent a bit of money too. A festival can be expensive and twenty pound notes were not lasting as long as they used to. We had the younger contingency of our group camping at the festival (as the oldies, we hotel-dot-com’d it in the town centre, cheating or glamping – you decide) but each morning we picked up some stuff from the Sainsbury’s located right next to our hotel and marched it to the front zipped canvas doors of the youths’ base camp. Crisps, cakes, beer, pre-packed Chicken and sweetcorn sarnies... you know the score – rations for the upcoming day and reason to share a pre-twelve o’clock, warm can of Carlsberg in celebration of another successful smuggling racket before another trudge to the days entertainment.

Before we knew it we had hidden booze down our pants, queued to get into the arena where rows of security checked bags for glass bottles and cans. When I got through, I felt euphoria at beating the system and we unloaded said drink back into the rucksack (I don’t normally like wearing a rucksack at a festival as they tend to get in the way, smacking into people as you dance). Not that it would matter because I was staying off it for the day.

We headed to the Radio 1 tent, unravelled the crusty mud splattered picnic blanket and set up shop just outside the marquee (in front of the big screens) and I wondered if it was too early for a sausage and egg wrap.

And I would have probably caved in to my sandwich desires but I had already decided today would be the day I spent no money within the walls of the Reading Music Festival. Nothing, not a penny would leave my wallet. I had the rucksack full of booze (thanks to the big bulky security guard not willing to touch my naughty bits) and several ‘Be Good to Yourself’, low fat, pre-packed sarnies tucked away for a day’s feed. I think the kettle chips had already been crushed under the bottles, as had the Salt Beef and Horseradish on white but I think the salmon and dill mayo on granary was situated comfortably near the top of the bag – all that and Muse. Today was set to be a good, good day and I kicked back (as much as you can on a shared muddy picnic blanket).

That was when my thoughts of crushed sandwiches and warm lager was interrupted by a seven year old girl.

Entrepreneurial:
“Excuse me, have you finished with that?” she asked, pointing at the empty paper cup that had rolled towards me on the ground.

I picked up the cup and handed it to her. The girl gave it her friend (‘duty mule’ to her ‘duty nerves to talk to strangers’, I guess). They both smiled and politely thanked me and walked towards another empty paper cup a few meters away. The second girl had a pile of paper cups in her hand, the stack probably more than a meter long. They were tidying up but they were certainly too young to be working the festival. I watched them as they picked their way through the immediate area adding more empty cups to their collection.

“They get money back for each cup they return.”

The explanation had come from one of the girl’s mother, who was following behind ensuring her daughter and friend were fine.

“They must have a few quids worth.” I said, looking over to the ever growing stack.

The mother smiled and walked on.

Now, if you read my previous blog about Chavs, it will come as no surprise to you how full of admiration I had towards these two young girls. Children who were willing to work to get hold of money. I wanted to say something to their Mum, but who am I to tell strangers how impressed I am at their child’s work ethic. These kids were not spoilt little brats expecting everything to be served on a plate for them. They were willing to work the system for their own gains, put in a little hard graft for the reward. It’s been a long time since I have seen that attitude so readily on display. The world-is-a-changin’ but not everyone is falling for the ‘Don’t bother and the government will give you free money’ malarky that is the attitude of your average sponging Chav.

Taxation:
But where did the money come from to pay these little entrepreneurs?

Later, I guzzled my last bottle of beer with a slight regret that this would be my last alcoholic drink of the day. But at least a clear head would help with my memory tomorrow when someone could ask me how Muse were and I could answer them (as opposed to the usually hung-over ‘Awesome... I think.’) The clear head also allowed me to consider the recycling thing going down here.

I took the perception that the four pound a pint lager I had been guzzling all weekend was funding this corona-style-recycling-refund policy. For every four pound you paid and walked off with a full paper cup, ten pence of that was earmarked for funding Santa’s little Festival helpers who cashed in on the fat and lazy who couldn’t be arsed to return their cups.

And then it hit me, if I didn’t buy cold, fresh lager then these young children would not be able to make a living. It was my personal, social and moral responsibility to spend money so the insular economy of the festival could survive – and that is how I ended up drunk, slurring my appreciation for an internationally acclaimed three piece rock band and dancing like a right pissed numpty in a crowd of strangers who were all probably getting more and more annoyed the more my rucksack banged into them... Honest guv’.