I’ve slept less than 24 hours this week so naturally the unnaturally occurring ideas flickering inside my brain are good ones. Hence, I’m going to be pissing over the drug addled journalistic genius of everyone’s favourite gun obsessed drunk that is Hunter S Thompson and attempting to write something that vaguely mirrors his writing.  Gonzo porn stems from Thompson’s style, so a significant amount of the internet owes a lot to the master of words and debauchery, thus this article retains some form of merit even if it falls on it’s metaphorical face and gurns like a retard trying acid for the first time.

Sonisphere festival was the perfect place to see humans descend into a highly entertaining atavistic frenzy whilst laying waste to the historical grounds of a house that has seen Robbie William’s and god knows what other cunts squawking cliche’s and thinly veiled innuendo’s to draw in dribbling teenagers and lonely wet people past their mental sell by date.

Instead of the usual television friendly drivel accompanying the exploits of 55,ooo people paying to share living conditions classed below the poverty line, there were some quite famous alt. bands who had been paid large amounts of money to make pretty and otherwise noises to complement the three day long festivities.

The first day was sponsored by fetish magazine Bizarre, who make a profit by having photos of tattooed latex clad models with multi-coloured hair and the odd reference to tentacle porn.  The Rocky Horror Picture Show world record attempt for a mass Time Warp dance was an additional excuse for every whore, dude and normalton to don corsets, fishnets and excessive eye make up while tottering through Gary Numan’s set, gawking at Turisas and ticking off Alice Cooper on mental ‘Famous Bands I’ve Seen’ lists.

The fug of weed and whispers of  ‘want sum good skunk?’ could be traced throughout the crowd like a vein of mild insanity as people began to let go of convention and embrace herd mentality like ants in a blender. By Saturday morning the arena, dotted with discarded noodles and the juice of overpriced burgers, was crawling with those willing to see Sabaton singing about war, tanks and killing German’s.  Other bands that weren’t utter shite included Evile, Skunk Anansie, Anthrax and Mötley Crüe (mainly because of the high concentration of barely legal topless females).

Apocalyptica appeared to have a roadie auditioning for X Factor on stage and Fear Factory were as disappointing as the large amount of people who turned up to watch Good Charlotte piss on the face of music.

Rammstein raised the few eyebrows that noticed the red armbands being worn by the band members as they fired off several tonnes of explosives and set fire to random objects/people to the great amusement of everyone. The climax of the show involved Lindeman covering the entire enraptured audience in his metaphorical semen whilst straddling a large phallic foam cannon during the hypnotic and beguilingly crafted ‘Pussy‘. Undeniably entertaining.

Sunday saw an even greater concentration of discarded food, empty beer cans and a wasp infestation within the boundaries of what was once a field.  The hungover, drunk and teetotal emerged for another day of excess, exposure of erogenous zones and the final chance to go all out batshit crazy before returning to the social constraints of home, family and work.

Skindred bake the audience like a cake, reflecting the sun like futuristic astronaut businessmen on the solar commute with their shiny silver pimp suits and teasing the crowd with dubsteb after asking them if they like metal. Slayer are metal, they make metalheads run around in circles and hit each other within the bounds of strictly set pit etiquette. That is what happened when Slayer played, that is what always happens when Slayer play and that is what always will happen when Slayer play.

Ian Astbury of The Cult managed to highlight his deteriorating condition as he panted and wheezed between songs, calling the unimpressed audience ‘lightwieghts’ for a mere four days of boozing and snoozing as he painfully caught his breath after a number.

A browned post-drug Iggy Pop maintained audience interest by inviting up members of the crowd onstage to the immense disapproval of the hulking festival security who seemed to have been injected with a cocktail of aggression and psychopathic hate towards anything that did not lie within the realms of unconsciousness.

Kylesa and Turbowolf proved to be fantastic bands, both are clearly on their way to fame.  If you want to be one of those people who were ‘there from the beginning’ now would be a good time to jump in before they ‘sell out’.

Pendulum made people dance.

With very little left of Sonisphere, a crushing sense catharsis was imminent as many anticipated Iron Maiden, whose fame transcend the genre of Heavy Metal to such an extent that pretending to like them is so cool you can even buy an extortionately priced band shirt from American Apparel to increase your chances of being liked by other people.

It will be a long time before I forget how I stood there that summer evening and allowed the introduction for ‘Fear of the Dark’ to wash over me before turning to Mike Hunt, pulling a big grin and forgetting that I was supposed to be a cynical bastard with as much residual ennui as the average person’s collection of illegally downloaded music.

Despite being a three day long excuse for shameless promotion, media frenzy and profit, Sonisphere festival was not bad at all. In fact, it was really quite enjoyable.


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