calling all keen horticulturalists

A while ago I spent a weekend frolicking in a field with good chums at the Secret Garden Party. It was seriously good fun; plenty of random activities to partake, observe and avoid, conversations to be had and overheard and of course, excellent music. I do love a good festival and I think this one can proudly ascend to a firm spot in my top 5 of favourite festivals.

Fortunately there were no embarrassing demonstrations of my utter "squareness" like last year, when I mistakenly thought someone was offering to sell me some cake, and could barely contain my disappointment when it turned out to be "K", or my embarrassment when it had to be explained to by said appalled drug dealer that K stood for Ketamine. Just as well, I was about a second away from asking whether the offer was for a cereal bar of just a box of the stuff? Either way - I'm keen!

Thankfully nothing like that this year. So instead of cataloguing the entire weekend (because it would be quite boring for one, and importantly because I can't be bothered for two) I shall relate one of my favourite moments from the festival. This one especially is reflective not of the awesome music we saw but was simply, really bloody funny.

This number one spot has to be given to "LAURA". This Laura, is similar to other icons who are so great they only need one name. Think, Prince, Madonna...I can't think of any more so it's a relief that the "Laura" in question can be added to this catalogue of legends.

So we discovered this Laura one evening when we were chilling in our tent. The tent flap was open and a random girl popped her head in asking if we'd seen a wasted girl called Laura? Sadly not, was our response. Cue 15 solid minutes of what sounded like three different people shouting constantly around the campsite for this enigmatic Laura. There was no response to any of them.

We discovered why, a short while later. Laura, had clearly, as my mother would say "taken up with some young man" or in her (my mother's, not Laura's) latest bizarre expression "gone to sow her oats" I literally had NO IDEA what she was talking about the first time she started going on about oats and sowing. Most distressing, but I digress, that is for another blog. After a short rest from name calling a further furious attempt was started and this time after one particularly desperate sounding "Laura!" call, there was a reply! I shall set the scene properly:

"Laura! Laura!....LAURA!!!"

"....FUCK OFF!"

Kudos to both teams I say. For her friends for preserving so long in the manhunt and for Laura, for being so dedicated to the task (or job, ho ho) in hand. At least the entire festival had confirmation that she was alive. Collectively, a great sigh of relief was had.

This was then swiftly followed by a loud conversation about wild horses, perhaps conducted by the dedicated fans of Laura, I'm not sure. Either way, at one point our delighted ears were treated to a comprehensive impression of a wild horse, including foot stamping, neighing and a touch of horse-like snorting. Then followed the classic exchange:

"WHAT'S YOUR NAME"
demanded an authoritative gardener
"Paul"
Paul meekly replied.
"Paul? PAUL?!"
Replied the authoritative, and now rather indignant gardener
"er, yes" (poor Paul)
"You don't look like a Paul! You look like a RUPERT."

I wonder what constitutes looking like a Rupert. Or indeed, simply not looking like a Paul?! Poor bastard.