By Noel Oxford
I’m not really long on sticking extemporaneous, gonzo-style bumwipes about my intolerably dull daily life up on the internet. That is, of course, unless it genuinely pertains to the thing I am writing about (or it’s Twitter, where quality control is literally irrelevant). But the events of the past 24 hours have been so exquisitely shitty that I feel it necessary to chronicle them, just so that when you read my forthcoming Roadburn 2010 copy (and you will), you’ll know to the very depths of your gonads that I fucking sweated for every last syllable of it. This, of course, assumes that the ferry won’t be hijacked and dirty bombed to the back of Davy Jones’ Locker by Stephen Fry and Graham Linehan in support of their continuing iJihad.
Theoretically, I should have been in Rotterdam by now, ambling about, taking in the odours and doing whatever else one does when one is in Holland. Tomorrow, the day of my 30th birthday, I should have been driving my car through to Tilburg and then Eindhoven. Thursday, the Roadburn festival kicks off. I’d have been settled and relaxed and happy and ready to get my face melted off or my balls rocked bald by brutality or something of the kind.
In practice, I’ve spent the past day with a phone clasped to my head, trying desperately to swing it so I can still make it to the festival, after some vas deferens in a Ford Galaxy backed into the front of my car at about 4.30pm yesterday, completely writing it off. That was just over nine hours before I was due to leave for the port. At that point, the machinery of this whole enterprise had seemingly jammed solid on the world’s largest dogshit spanner. Surely there was no way I could get a car organised in time, and even if I did, would I be able to put my crossing off? Would the hostel mind if I showed up late?? Would I still make it in time to get my festival passes??? It’s not exactly a season finale of 24, I grant you, but it’s drama enough for me, thank you so much.
In the intervening hours, I’ve spoken to insurers, to repairers, to car renters, to ferry operators and to hostel managers. By some deft and sly manoeuvring, as well as some not inconsiderable extra expense, my crossing is postponed to Thursday, and I have a car to drive both there and back. Somehow, by the very hair of my teeth, I’ve narrowly avoided completely wrecking this dreaded birthday, while also coming out feeling like I’ve thoroughly earned the holiday. You had best read every single word I write about it, or I’ll fucking get you.
Assuming nothing else cocks up, I’ll be filing as many updates and tweeting as much as I can (afford) live from the mattresses at Roadburn 2010, the nicest festival around. Watch this very space for a series of long, sarcastic articles, illustrated with tons of inexpertly shot photographs, that will clog up the internet until Kingdom literally Come. And why not use the following interesting and exciting Stephen Fry-approved social media tools to follow me all the way to and beyond Roadburn 2010: My special private Twitter feed.