Thursday, 7 July 2011

An Overblown Reaction to Beech Road Festival

Give me kooky shops; give me litter; give me booze; give me men peeing up alleyways; give me men spitting up walls; give me women, giggling and fawning over home made wares and tares; give me crap music; give me a tent marketing the Manchester College; give me the tragic Beech Road festival; a festival hell bent on making money, in, of all places, Communist Chorlton.
It was a day when men fought over turf; it was a day when women wept over blood, spilt for the sake of an extra pint of beer; it was a day when the people of Chorlton, free from the shackles of their fucked up ideology, returned to the wild, hacking and crapping in the woods.  And they didn't even bother to use toilet paper.
To say I enjoyed the Beech Road Festival would be an overstatement of gargantuan proportions.  It would be comparable to a statement declaring Neil Ruddock the greatest footballer of all time.  I lasted ten minutes in its chilly atmosphere, watching fair folk go mad for cupcakes, shitty dresses, twee furniture, ice cream, more ice cream, and booze.  Ten minutes is all I could handle and I saw enough debauchery to make a nun weep for forty years.
Apparently there will be changes next year.  No longer can the council tolerate such foul behaviour.  I, for one, would be glad to see the back of it forever.