Which side of me will win?

Metalcamp 2012: Bed of nails

Continuing with the theme of being sweaty, and it really was a prevailing theme at this year’s Metalcamp, one thing that made me really perspire was discovering, after pitching my tent, that the spot I had selected was something of a natural bed of nails.

I chose to make my Metalcamp home in a Slovenian camp – with the aforementioned Kat and Marko as well as, eventually, about 15 more Slovenes – because the ground looked softer and more comfortable than at my other option, the very stony, rooty, slopey looking Irish camp inhabited by the aforementioned Matty, Adrian, Tzafi, Dorian and a whole bunch of other people who are either Irish, or spend the whole week going ’round pretending to be (sure).

Imagine my surprise, and not inconsiderable chagrin, then, when upon entering my tent for the first time I nearly stigmata myself on one of dozens of very sharp and surprisingly strong sticks sticking (as sticks are wont to do) out of the ground. I’d sort of noticed them before I put the tent up – they looked brittle and weak. They weren’t.

Fortunately I never go camping without a big fucking hammer, so I go ’round the floor of my tent beating the shit out of these bastard sticks and calling them cunts. God, that makes me sweaty.

After that, I totally got drunk!

…and this is exactly what it was like!

Camped with Kat and Marko at this point are Rok – but let’s call him Šmon, because everyone else does – and Bine, whose name, for my English chums, is pronounced like… I can’t think of a simple way to explain it… it’s like been-e. That ‘e’ on the end is a short ‘e’ like in Ben, and not like in ‘been’. I’ve met these two before, at another Slovenian festival by the name of Metal Mania. Šmon I’d actually met at last year’s Metalcamp, but completely forgot about it. I’m something of a legend in his mind for reasons that are explained here, or at least would be if I hadn’t written the poor guy out of history.

Then there are two other chaps I’ve not met before called Primož and Blaž. You can figure out how to say their names for yourselves. I can’t remember whether anyone else had arrived yet, or whether anyone else arrived that night after me. I can barely remember anything at all.

I remember starting on the vodka. At least I think I do. And I remember my friends commenting disdainfully on my choice of spirit. This coming from people who drank almost nothing but gin all week. Cheeky bastards.

A visit to the Irish camp was on my agenda for that evening, but I never made it thanks at first to a habit of going, “Just one more drink/cigarette and I’ll go see them…” then ultimately to a fairly genuine inability to stand up. I don’t remember going to bed, but I’m told I fell asleep in the chair then, all of a sudden, flipped off it backwards (I presumably couldn’t figure out any other way to remove myself from it) and, without saying a word, crawled to my tent in two seconds flat. My friends couldn’t emphasise enough just how fast I had crawled. I suppose it must have been a bit like this…

It’s not a superpower I knew I had.


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