Daniel Johns is a cunt and ALL music is mediocre, so why the fuck would you go to Big Day Out? Because it gives you the chance to dress up like a complete faggot, get drunk and talk to girls you would never, ever, talk to in real life. Remember, BDO actually takes place in a different dimension – there are no consequences for your actions whatsoever.
After pushing my way through the entrance, I reached into my pants and removed a hot water bottle filled with vodka that I’d smuggled in, and procceded to snort it through my eyes.
Then, I pushed over some dickhead kid and grabbed his set guide and told him to go see Gyroscope. I combed over the shit line up and tried to make the decision between seeing Kate Nash or killing myself. Luckily, before my mind got the better of me, some amazingly good-looking, underage girls asked me for a photo. They did interrupt me, but seemed nice. I thought, “Why do they want a photo of me?” Because, instead of donning an Australian flag like someone who should be pushed into a sawmill, I wore a shit, home-made David Bowie t-shirt and a shiny, golden, hooded cape. I can only assume this was the reason for all the fuss.
The next couple of hours involved wandering aimlessly from stage to stage, being asked for a fucking photo every ten metres and acting as vague as possible to everyone. At one point, I nearly sold the golden cape for $30… I should have sold it. It was getting tedious to the point where I thought, “I’m going to fucking slam my hot water bottle into the face of the next person who points it out”.
Shortly after coming to this conclusion, two fucking dim witted Channel V presenters, in the midst of playing out some sort of bullshit skit, grabbed me and proceeded to give me an “$80 fine for the cape.” They were ‘the fashion police.’ Hilarious.
I should point out that, at this point, I was amazingly drunk and had just found out the girl I loved for the past five years had done a photo shoot for Hustler. I really wasn’t in the mood to make banter with cable TV show hosts.
So, instinctively, I stole the microphone from one of them and bolted. I was flying for at least 20 metres. I peeled back my hood to glance over my shoulder, only to see a full camera crew and the hosts running after me. I stopped and used the microphone as a gun, making shitty ‘pew pew’ noises at them. They both tackled me to the ground. So, logically, I decided to start screaming. “Life is a cage! Suicide is freedom!” or some shit to that effect.
My point being, if you are going to go to a music festival… I don’t have a point. But Dizzee Rascal was fucking amazing.
You can catch the rest of this review in the next issue of Catalyst Magazine.
