Hi everyone in Al blogland. It’s JAY. So. Market forces or whatever, who knows. But yeah. I was baking and I got a call. It’s only Al. Seems I did well attacking him on his own blog for not paying me. He wants me to cover his blog again. Lazy idiot. He says “I’m at Shambala Festival. You know the login. Try to do a better job than last time. I’ll give you £50 for 3 nights. But don’t do that thing at the start where you tell everyone it’s Jay. Just pretend to be me and get 500 words out there.”
Yeah. Well. Disobedience is the foundation of creativity, Al. You should know that. It’s the sort of crap you spout. Look at you. You’re at a festival again.
While I’ve got the audience, let’s look at festivals. Come on. Seriously? Filthy middle class people vanishing into their own echo chambers on an estate in the home counties. What do you really think they are Al? Some act of rebellion? They are just as much a part of the machine as football matches. “Serendipity” you call it when you run into your dissipated hippy friends in a hippy trap. That’s just an excuse to use a polysyllabic word. None of you understand the intricacies of baking like I do. Get a skill, you festival ponces with your kale and quinoa killing the world with air miles while you turn your nose up at plastic and throw your cans of matcha into landfill. Anyway festivals are the placebo so you put your potential activism in your pocket because you’ve done naughty things so you’ve satisfied the urge to kick off against a world and a system that is not working, never has been, and won’t start to anytime soon. Wake up ponces. We need a revolution.
Anyway. £50. What do you get for £50, Al? I could bake you a massive batch of scones. But you asked for a blog. 500 words. Right.
Arriving at Shambala Festival it was immediately clear to me that I was at home, surrounded by people in their grandparent’s clothes already drunk at 6pm and trying to put up expensive tents in their leather walking boots and unnecessary hats. I looked at my gold watch, and then shared a beer with someone who has a 12 bedroom house in Peckham. “How do you make a battenberg cake?” my friend asked, but I didn’t have a clue and nor did anyone else. Because we don’t even care about baking. It’s a lost art. We are losing all the skills we used to have. Who even knows where they’re going anymore without that little satnav voice? We store our own memories on the cloud and what happens if there is an EMP? What happens if all the technology stops working? Murder and cannibalism, that’s what. They can’t even make bread without a supermarket packet and squinting at the manual with scales and a bloody tape measure. Off at their festivals being “free spirited” cogs in a hideous “meritocracy” where merit is nothing to do with merit, just positioning. It makes me sick. Screw you Al and screw your blog.
Happy happy happy oh I’m so happy and everything is going really well. Etc. Pass the sick bag vicar. Jay out.