The anticipation of this blog entry has the same intensity as that experienced by the fellows stood at the bottom of Mount Sinai when Moses was on his 9th commandment. I do apologise for this but I was on holiday and as my life now does not follow normal guidelines, I actually have more time to write at work.
The holiday itself was a game of two halves. The first week saw us visit 3 separate hospitals over 5 days, whilst the 2nd took us down to Southampton.
Dylan has had his Hernia operation and the patient is now fine with all bits put back in the right place. He is now sporting a small scratch on his waist, that I may pretend is the mark that the aliens left when they were inserting something alieny.
Also, Sophie, can now only count to ten, a high five rather than a high six. Now when the angry mob come round our way looking for witches we won’t have to hide her in Claire’s handbag. The finger has been removed. The digit has been amputated. Unfortunately, it does mean that she has probably lost a couple of ounces because of it but we couldn’t really have kept it on just for the weight statistics.
The weather has obviously been appalling all over the country, and so the rain in Southampton now echoes my constant moan about the rain in Manchester. In fact, Manchester has been one of the driest places in the country in the last month. The week in Southampton was tarnished by the fact that we could not really enjoy any decent day trips because it was so cold and wet. But like the one legged man that painted himself pink to gain work as a flamingo said, “you have to make the best out of a situation”, still, I am glad that we are back home
I ended my vacation by attending the Arctic Monkeys gig at Old Trafford. We had been forewarned of the incredibly long beer queues so did not rush there to see any of the support acts. The Coral and Supergrass are disappointing warm up bands on the best of days and so there was no chance I was going to spend 6 hours in the place.
However, when we did turn up it was as if we had been transported into a war torn country where the vista more resembled a scene from Mad Max. We had to queue for over an hour to get to the bar, and they didn’t have any pork scratchings even then. And if that is not inhumane enough, I was then faced with one of the most harrowing images that my eyes have ever suffered. Now, I have been to many festivals and consider myself to be quite experienced in gig behaviour, but the toilet situation was out of control.
As is often the case in this type of event there was an area solely dedicated to the extraction of waste. As is also the case normally this area tends not to be big enough for the number of people there. But instead of an orderly waiting system, there was nothing of the sort enforced. Let me describe the situation. Picture a square of ten Portaloos per side, then also imagine a set of urinals in the middle of the square, possibly 16, all facing each other in two rows. All of the space around the urinals was filled up with people, both men and women (even though this was the Gents) all drunk and desperate to offload the last pint of watered down lager.
The holiday itself was a game of two halves. The first week saw us visit 3 separate hospitals over 5 days, whilst the 2nd took us down to Southampton.
Dylan has had his Hernia operation and the patient is now fine with all bits put back in the right place. He is now sporting a small scratch on his waist, that I may pretend is the mark that the aliens left when they were inserting something alieny.
Also, Sophie, can now only count to ten, a high five rather than a high six. Now when the angry mob come round our way looking for witches we won’t have to hide her in Claire’s handbag. The finger has been removed. The digit has been amputated. Unfortunately, it does mean that she has probably lost a couple of ounces because of it but we couldn’t really have kept it on just for the weight statistics.
The weather has obviously been appalling all over the country, and so the rain in Southampton now echoes my constant moan about the rain in Manchester. In fact, Manchester has been one of the driest places in the country in the last month. The week in Southampton was tarnished by the fact that we could not really enjoy any decent day trips because it was so cold and wet. But like the one legged man that painted himself pink to gain work as a flamingo said, “you have to make the best out of a situation”, still, I am glad that we are back home
I ended my vacation by attending the Arctic Monkeys gig at Old Trafford. We had been forewarned of the incredibly long beer queues so did not rush there to see any of the support acts. The Coral and Supergrass are disappointing warm up bands on the best of days and so there was no chance I was going to spend 6 hours in the place.
However, when we did turn up it was as if we had been transported into a war torn country where the vista more resembled a scene from Mad Max. We had to queue for over an hour to get to the bar, and they didn’t have any pork scratchings even then. And if that is not inhumane enough, I was then faced with one of the most harrowing images that my eyes have ever suffered. Now, I have been to many festivals and consider myself to be quite experienced in gig behaviour, but the toilet situation was out of control.
As is often the case in this type of event there was an area solely dedicated to the extraction of waste. As is also the case normally this area tends not to be big enough for the number of people there. But instead of an orderly waiting system, there was nothing of the sort enforced. Let me describe the situation. Picture a square of ten Portaloos per side, then also imagine a set of urinals in the middle of the square, possibly 16, all facing each other in two rows. All of the space around the urinals was filled up with people, both men and women (even though this was the Gents) all drunk and desperate to offload the last pint of watered down lager.
I managed to squeeze my way through the crowds and get to one of the urinal spaces. These came up to your waist so you were effectively standing in the middle of a crowd, for all the obstruction they were giving. So with boys and girls stood all around me I proceeded to alleviate the pressure that had built up inside. It was not an enjoyable moment but then things were to get a country mile worse. I looked up, being careful not to look anyone in the eyes opposite me who were also going through this living hell, I spotted a female stood up at the urinals with a slight recline. To describe the disgust that was etched on to the faces of those that witnessed it would be impossible to do, but I am sure as you are reading this you will have the same look on your own.
I walked out of the dirty courtyard, shaking my head, to see more girls just squatting in the middle of the concourse type area with friends holding blankets up to hide their shame. There were men acting in a similar way but that is not so shocking, we have come to expect that. As I returned to my group I had the unenviable task of reliving it through anecdotal form to their horrified faces. I do not like to be the purveyor of nasty images but I felt that it was my role as a social commentator to enlighten these friends of mine with the exact details, as to ensure that they would not make the same mistake as me.
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