#but then again i come from a long line of alcoholics and chainsmokers that somehow lived to their 90s

[tisthedamnstark]

And whatever they lose, they rediscover (Stony Angst)

Read on AO3

It's a little known fact that at fifteen, Tony Stark was a gifted poet. The combination of his genius mind and his complicated teenage emotions made him an able writer, collecting and polishing words like a machine he has to restore.

Now, Tony writes again, standing in the ashes of the Avengers fever dream.

OR

Set after Civil War, Tony writes a poem for Steve when all he has left is a burner phone, broken promises and a stubborn ember of hope.

cap breaks promises. "we'll lose" in that second, every ounce of trust released unbound willing to believe whatever he says in return. "then we'll do that together too".

Tony remembers, vividly, that time when Steve promised to be there. The time when he swore, half unspoken, that no matter how catastrophic the loss, he would stay by Tony's side.

He can still feel the rush of relief, the band aid on his ageing heart when he believed he had Steve. The feeling of being wanted and trusted is burned so strongly onto his very being that he still dreams about it- even now. Standing in the ashes of the Avengers fever dream. Surveying the wreckage of his naivety.

A little part of him still believes. Tony is fully aware that he poured expensive alcohol on a flame and expected it to flicker and die, when deep down he knew that it would burn brighter than before.

One day, he thinks it was a Sunday, Peter came into the tower unexpectedly and, well. It wasn't a pretty sight, as Tony was (impressively) both drunk and hungover.

He took one look at his wasted mentor and pulled out his phone, frantically typing something.

"Hey kid," Tony slurred, "don't go telling on me. Not cool."

"I'm not busting you Mr Stark, it's, uh, your life I guess?" Peter scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, "It just reminded me of a meme I saw. Um... this one!"

Peter handed Tony the phone, saying "This is you, Mr Stark, seriously."

The meme was a yellow dog in a room on fire, sat at a table with a mug. There was a speech bubble saying 'This is fine.'

Before Tony could respond indignantly, Peter took the phone back and said he was heading into the lab to work on the web formula. Waving him off, Tony sat back into the chair holding his glass of whiskey contemplatively.

"Damn kid." He muttered, "If only he knew how spot on that analogy was."

After that, Tony drank less, which was good. Unfortunately, he also decided that a good replacement for his poisonous drink was something toxic to inhale instead.

It had been a long time since Tony had smoked like this. Sure, he enjoyed a cigarette now and then, but he kicked the habit in his early twenties.

So, to say Rhodey was surprised to see his friend chainsmoking on the balcony was an understatement.

"You gonna talk about it, Tones?" He asked softly, without judgement.

"Not a chance." Tony scoffed, taking a particularly long drag.

"Hand me one then. I'll keep you company."

The pair spent almost two hours in a comfortable silence, the only sounds from the traffic below and the occasional click of the lighter.

When Rhodey got up to leave, he placed one hand on Tony's shoulder and said "Don't break yourself over this."

Tony heard the footsteps of his best friend fade, and wondered if he'd ever open up again. Ever trust again.

Tony remembers the time when Steve promised to be there. He wonders how delusional he must have been to have seen love in those eyes.

spoken so strongly you're compelled to believe. they lost. but they lost to eachother. promises twisted and poisoned and still promises. indescript phone. indescribable promise. "whatever it takes" he promised. his promises shouldn't mean anything now; no trust. liar.

Sitting at his desk, his eyes linger on the phone Steve left him when he, well, left him. Ran off with his childhood friend because he never truly loved-

Tony quickly cuts off that train of thought, forcing it back into the darkest corner of his mind, refusing to face reality. He returns his attention to the computer, to the document full of false starts and cliché concepts.

It's a little known fact that at fifteen, Tony Stark was a gifted poet. The combination of his genius mind and his complicated teenage emotions made him an able writer, collecting and polishing words like a machine he has to restore.

When his parents died, he felt the violent roar of grief, simultaneously overwhelming his mind and numbing his emotions to the point where he was so changed that he couldn't do it anymore.

Words that once flowed smoothly like clockwork ground to a bitter halt, depriving Tony of his last healthy outlet. Thinking nothing of it in the haze, he tucked his notebook away and reached for the whiskey.

The decades passed and it was almost as if the recent events revived the poetic voice in him; maybe two wrongs do make a right.

Deciding to change tack, Tony closed the document and reached for a pen and paper.

It was if someone had ripped open a faucet, everything that wouldn't type poured out onto the page. The poem was a mess, a formless chunk of angry, brutal, beautiful sentences that expressed everything he wanted it to.

He reread what he wrote with a more critical eye, reshaping the raw emotions into palatable English, harshly critiquing his rusty wording.

When Tony was satisfied, he folded the page in half and tucked it into the locked drawer of the desk.

Three weeks later, with a cigarette in his hand and a determined expression, he pulled out the burner phone and typed it all out into a text message. (It had been a while since he used an old-fashioned keypad, so that took longer than he would care to admit.)

Wondering if he would regret this, he quickly added a short line at the bottom:

"you asked to read my poetry a couple of years ago. i didn't like that idea. you taught me that we don't always get what we want, or even what we thought we already had. -ts"

Trying not to tremble, he sent off the message, praying that the phone really would contact Steve.

Without the luxury of read receipts, Tony went to bed troubled that night, silently begging the universe to give him a break for once in his life.

The universe, unsurprisingly, didn't reply.

yet somehow despite the pain, despite the loss, there's always more to gain in him. and whatever they lose they rediscover and it burns even brighter than it did before. hurts even deeper than it did before. they love even harder than they could before.

Tony, despite his current pessimism, hates bad endings. His life seems to deal him those cards constantly and unrepentantly, ending everything painfully and pairing them with beginnings that were so beautiful he couldn't bear to ignore them.

There was Yinsen, a saviour before he even spoke a word to Tony. He knows he owes his life to the man, and that debt shall remain unfulfilled until the day he himself drops. Tony tries to believe that death was truly what his companion wanted.

Obadiah was the caring father figure that Tony desperately needed, until his jealousy got the better of him and he went from supportive to unplugging the life support. Tony cursed the man who invented greed.

These circumstances are what made losing Steve so jarring. Somehow, Tony had convinced himself that his boyfriend loved him and would never leave him behind, but... it turns out even Captain America was a bastard.

"I'm so done with bad end-"

A shrill, tinny noise comes from the burner phone. On autopilot, Tony reaches for it and answers in a split second.

"Steve?"

There was a huff of breath and a pause.

"I read your poem, Tony."

Tony hadn't noticed how much he missed Steve despite everything. Hearing his voice was almost too much, but the last thing he would ever do is hang up.

Tony swallowed. "Um. Yeah. Thoughts?"

"We lost. And I'm sorry." Steve said, trying to hide the uncertainty in his tone, "I broke a promise, and I hurt us. We both made mistakes but..." A shaky sigh exits Steve's mouth, and Tony feels the familiar ache to kiss away the pain for him.

"But." Steve spoke more surely now, "I made the bigger one. That mistake was leaving you behind. I love you, Tony, and I have completely failed at expressing that in a meaningful way."

"I love y- you too." Tony said, voice small and stuttering slightly. All his residual anger was fading hearing from the man he loved speak to him again. "We really lost, Steve. Can we really continue the story of us? When all I have left is the ashes of what we were?"

"Killing me with poetry." Steve mutters, but he spoke too close to the microphone and Tony smiles a small, hopeful smile.

Steve, unbeknownst to Tony, was stroking over the words of his poem, having copied it out as soon as he received it. "What is lost, as you said yourself, can be rediscovered. What love we had can make it, Tony." He paused, before adding;

"We'll burn even brighter than we did before."

[tombcnd-a]

hellloooooo friends!! it’s everyone’s favorite hoe, harley!! after a long time of decision and some work, i’ve decided to bring in a third and final muse. typically, when i bring in a third muse, it doesn’t seem to stick, but i’m hoping it will this time if adult life and time allow me to do so! and again here i am with another underused/unknown fc, because i have no self control, and apparently hate myself enough to make a fuckton of icons for them... without further ado, here he is! if you wish to plot, hit that like button and i’ll come to you!

TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of abuse, injury, pregnancy, and murder/crime

[ kier kemp, twenty-seven, cis male, he/him ] ━ hey, I just saw [ thomas “tom” blackwell ] walking down the streets of crownsville. they’ve lived in town for [ three years ], and you can catch them around town working as a [ owner of outside the lines and con artist ]. I hear they’re known to be [ clever and efficient ] and [ deceitful and downtrodden ]. if asked, they would say their aesthetic would be [ blurred lines, fake passports, crying babies, half-painted walls, trashed hotel rooms, French swears, a knife in the back, smudged eyeliner, chipped teeth, chasing ghosts, counterfeit cash, messy haircuts, leopard print ]. ━ [ ooc: harley, 19, cst, she/her ]

name: thomas judah blackwell

nicknames: tom, tommy

birthday: february 29, 1991 (age 27)

hometown: atlanta, georgia (later baltimore, maryland)

occupation: owner of outside the lines & con artist

orientation: demiromantic heteroflexible

relationship status: married

children: a two-year old daughter, penelope (nicknamed penny or pen), biological father of the baby Hazel gave birth to at 18 (has no knowledge of it)

education: high school diploma, certificates in management and art history

VARIOUS INFORMATION AND FACTS:

made up of french heritage, born to a waitress on the poverty line and a famous actor as a result of a hushed affair, he was abandoned at an orphanage by his mother as a baby when she found she could not afford to care for a child of her own

growing up in the foster system did not go well for young tom after he hit a certain age when he lost the cute, endearing baby-like charm of a small child, and he began to be bounced around foster homes on a fairly constant basis

during high school, he never fit in. he knew who he was from a young age and that he didn’t fit in with the crowd, and it caused a rift between him and others- for someone so patient and soft, he didn’t tolerate the bullying he faced as a result of being an outcast and stood up for himself. his strong-willed independence led to him working double shifts on a job as soon as he could manage to scrape up enough cash to purchase a shitty beat-up car to pull him to and from work and school

though exceptionally bright, he fell short academically with the constant running from home and physical abuse in the homes he did end up in, as well as stress from the general school environment, and only graduated by the skin of his teeth

living in the seedy part of the city thanks to a foster home he was living in at the time, tom was involved in a near-fatal stabbing when he was seventeen and suffered substantial injuries that left a nasty scar

met his father once during high school, and while the meeting went decently enough, he felt they were from far too different worlds and he didn’t wish to push fatherhood on someone who showed no apparent interest in it

he and Hazel (our Kaya) grew up together and became particularly close when high school rolled around, practically inseparable and the best of friends- for him, she was a safe place to hide when he needed to run away from an abusive foster home and have a place to stay until he was chucked back into the system and placed in another home, and each other’s soft spot in a harsh world. at the beginning of their senior year, they began to date and the relationship lasted for a year up until somewhere after their graduation, when they decided to mutually part ways on account of tom’s ventures to move up north- unbeknownst to him, hazel was pregnant with his child

after moving to baltimore, his life improved- for a brief period. finding a decent job as a backroom stockboy and earning his certificates, his luck seemed to be turning around and he could picture a future for himself

all good things come to an end, however, when working the backroom ended with him becoming a witness to something he wasn’t supposed to see. little did he know, a crime syndicate ran the store that he worked at, and said crime syndicate was run by a striking, empowered, and ruthless woman by the name of jezebel (may or may not become a wc at some point in which her name would become utp). she allowed him to go unharmed under the condition that he were to take up running tasks for the crime ring, and naturally, he obliged

before long, he was head over heels for none other than jezebel herself, and the two courted. the longer they dated, the more he rose in the ranks, from runner to pickpocketing and small, often petty crimes and before he knew it, he was in the same position as she was- tom had become a hitman. together, their crime ring thrived with an abundance of clientele in the city and the surrounding area, making out well. the dirt poor foster kid that had once been suddenly had more money than he really knew what to do with

when he was 23, they got married in a fever and couldn’t be happier with one another, and the honeymoon was nothing less than perfect. two years into their marriage, jezebel found she was pregnant with his child

but happy endings didn’t last forever either. for him, being a hitman was just a way of making money and for jezebel, it was a way of life. that way of life began to catch up to them and she feared for the safety of the child that was to be born. she feared that an enemy of theirs would find out their identities and try to destroy the competition. to maximize her sense of security, they made the shared decision to pack up and leave baltimore, moving to crownsville where his wife purchased ownership of outside the lines

on november 7, 2015, the light of tom’s life was born and penelope came into the world like a firecracker, as fiery as her mother, and he was completely taken by her and the joys of fatherhood

a short time after penelope was six months old, though, jezebel disappeared, leaving only a note, apologizing to tom for her leave and saying it would be better for both he and the child to keep them safe. she didn’t say where she was going and they haven’t seen each other since. from time to time, he receives packages in the mail, unlabeled, from her with varying post cards and letters and whatever else that had stacked up over the last few months, with enough time between them and the package’s arrival to ensure his inability to track her down

settled into crownsville and with the disappearance of his wife, he decidedly made the attempt to weasel his way out of the hitman business. it’s still an uphill battle for him, on account of both needing money and the career choice not being the easiest in the world to escape from, and turned to con artistry instead to make up for the lack of cash, and ended up with the ownership of outside the lines

he and hazel kept in contact, although sporadic and unpredictable, exchanging emails from time to time

tom is a compulsive liar and can and will lie over a multitude of details of his life, even the everyday mundane detail, and sometimes with no reason at all- he’s quick on his feet and able to spin a lie at the drop of a hat

short bean at 5′4″, probably can’t reach the top shelf at a grocery store, and has had the same messy hair since high school and somehow finds time to put eyeliner on with a kiddo in tow

hair dyed black or red (currently red) since he was literally 15, bad teeth because he didn’t receive much proper care as a youth, terrible chainsmoker, fluent in French (+ partially fluent in Portuguese because of hazel), still wears his wedding band, extremely fond of leopard print jackets

unironically loves the black eyed peas and fergie... also classic rock

not big on alcohol and never has been, will only indulge the occasional beer or social drink

extremely feisty and strong-willed, will not tolerate shit from anybody and is more than willing to stand up for himself and call someone out on their bullshit and despite being small, he can pack a punch if he needs to

punkass kid at heart and though his job made him rougher around the edges, he still manages a soft, patient attitude thanks to his daughter

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

Former clientele (petty crimes only, e.g. stealing for someone, supplying them with something, etc)

Parent friends

People he’s sold fake art to / ripped off

Enemies

ya girl is literally the world’s worst at plotting, hit me with all ya got

[alexhatesmusic]

Alex reviews the song Closer by the group the Chainsmokers

The beginning to {insert your favorite crime show here} always unfolds in the same way. Someone is running through the woods, breathing heavily, and looking back over their shoulder. The viewpoint juggles between tight, close-ups to far away landscapes to point-of-view as we watch this character sprint through the wilderness. It becomes pretty evident that this person is running from something, but we never get a clear view of what they’re running from, only that it’s terrifying and evil. The escapee crouches behind a tree/fallen tree/randomunexplainedstructure and we think, “Hey, they made it!” Right as relief washes over the character (and us), the poor soul is stabbed or shot or something and we learn an important lesson: You can never escape evil.

That’s how I feel about the song “Closer” by the Chainsmokers. It had been a few weeks since I had last heard “Closer.” I was enjoying life; a soul-crushing burden removed from me. I let myself believe that I had escaped this song and perhaps I would never hear it again. I thought that maybe (just maybe) I was free.

And then some fuck tagged me in this.

First of all, let’s talk about this band. “From Lambs to Lions???” realllyyy??? You wanted to start a faux-screamo band with your fake-metal friends and your fake-metal aesthetic and overdone haircuts that are now both out-of-style and the go-to Nazi style (s/o Richard Spencer) and you call yourself From Lambs to Lions? 

Okay. 

I would have gone my whole life not knowing who you are, but because you somehow thought “punk goes pop” was still relevant and because someone out there decided, “Hey, Alex would looooooove this,” I have to watch you sing shizzy autotune and do awkward choreographed instrument dances in an empty barn (so very punk). But enough with you.

I’ve been asked before why I don’t like the song “Closer” by the Chainsmokers. Somehow the answer “well, have you listened to it?” isn’t good enough, so I’ll elaborate here. Line by line.

The song starts with what I can only assume is a walrus slapping his fin down on a piano and hitting the same two chords over and over again. A voice pops in nonchalantly and says, “Hey.”

Before we go further I’ve got to note: Some people are really talented. Some people are really, really great at singing. Andrew Taggart of the Chainsmokers is not one of these people. I thought the singing might be coming from the walrus playing the same sparse notes in the background, but upon watching this video, I learned that there is in fact a man behind the voice.

So the song goes:

“Hey, I was doing just fine before I met you/ I drink too much/ And that’s an issue, but I’m okay”

Where to start? Easy knocks: I was doing just fine before I heard this song. I would drink too if I heard your voice on the daily. Blah blah blah. Beyond that, he’s obviously setting up a narrative. There’s a love interest and he drinks a lot.

“Hey, you tell your friends/ It was nice to meet them/ But I hope I never see them again”

Hey again! Not a greaaat way to start off a relationship, telling your so’s friends to fuck off and all, but alright. That last line is super wobbly vocally, but not the worst vocal experience of the track, because that belongs to the following pre-chorus.

“I know it breaks your heart/ Moved to the city in a broke-down car/ And four years, no calls/ Now you're lookin' pretty in a hotel bar/ And I-I-I can't stop/ No, I-I-I can't stop”

We don’t really know what Taggart can’t stop doing (the narrative foundation isn’t super strong here), but if it’s singing, I implore him to just try really hard for everyone else’s sake. 

So the narrative timeline is a bit wonky here. He told the girl’s friends to fuck off, he admits that he’s a drunk and that he was doing a-okay before she waltzed into his life. They obviously moved from somewhere into the famed, archetypal CITY in the famed, archetypal BROKE-DOWN CAR; they haven’t spoken in four years; and, above all, he-he-he can’t stop. He runs into her at a bar, so what’s the logical thing to do next? Hook up.

“So, baby, pull me closer/ In the backseat of your Rover/ That I know you can't afford/ Bite that tattoo on your shoulder”

I guess my biggest thing is: If you own a Land Rover, why are you having sex in the backseat of your car and not indoors like a normal person? Don’t get me wrong, Car and Driver reviewed the LR4 and noted, “The LR4 is one of the few modern vehicles with a genuinely low cowl, and combined with the tall roof it returns the sensation of extreme roominess,” which means there’s probably plenty of head room to get head, but come on, man. You’ve had how many #1 singles and you decide to get it on in your girl’s Range Rover? SHE CAN’T EVEN AFFORD IT! YOU’RE GOING TO GET STAINS ON THE “luxury-lined interior” (s/o Car and Driver). 

“Pull the sheets right off the corner/ Of the mattress that you stole/ From your roommate back in Boulder/ We ain't ever getting older”

So your girl’s a criminal, Taggart. Wow. At least now you’re having sex inside like a normal adult and not like a high schooler trying to hide from your parents. 

So, you haven’t seen this girl for four years and you run up on her at the bar. You hook up, not only in the back seat of her car, but on a mattress that she’s had since college and your excuse is, “We ain’t ever getting older.”

Alright.

Meanwhile, the world’s laziest EDM drop is happening as the walrus continues smashing his head against the same four notes that he’s been hitting all song. 

So, let’s hear what the other side of this relationship has to say. 

Picture Halsey, sitting at the bar, sipping on a (lets say) Irish car bomb and (enter frame) ex-bf walks in. You haven’t spoken in four years. So far we know that you used to go to the University of Colorado, you stole your roommate’s mattress and somehow brought it 1023 miles to what I can only assume is LA. You own a Range Rover that is way out of your price range, your ex is a drunk who can’t sing, and you have a tattoo on your shoulder.

And action!

“You look as good as the day I met you/ I forget just why I left you, I was insane”

Okay, on that last part, make it a present form of the “to be” verb and we’ll talk. Maybe it was because of his alcoholism? Maybe it was he was a dick to your friends? Does he really look as good as the day you met him? It’s been at least four years plus however many years you were together (healthy estimate based on time at Boulder and time in Tuscon (see upcoming lyrics) is that you met at least six to eight years ago). 

What water are they drinking in the archetypal CITY? Are y’all really not “getting older?”

Stay and play that Blink-182 song/ That we beat to death in Tucson, okay

You really couldn’t find a better band to prove that you’re a badass than Blink-182? Don’t get me wrong, “I Miss You” is a hit, but you’re hitting low-hanging pop punk fruit here. 

The worst part though? SHE SINGS FOUR LINES BEFORE THE PRE-CHORUS COMES BACK INTO THE SONG. She’s the redeeming factor of this track. She doesn’t have a terrible voice. She’s pretty and provides the narrative contrast to a so far confusing son. Why in the world are you only giving her four unique lines before shoeing her into the chorus?

“I know it breaks your heart/ Moved to the city blah blah blah blah” 

Same lyrical content over again. You’ve heard this song, so you know it repeats this pre-chorus and chorus another time in a charming (eh) duet before finishing the track in anthemic shouts of “We ain’t ever getting older” over the same lazy beat and same three or four electronic chords that have plagued the entire song.

And that’s the track.

So what does this story tell us? I honestly couldn’t tell you. The narrative is cloudy and the music is too devoid of variety to be able to make anything out.

The best I can tell you is that these are obviously the rantings of a drunkard and his borderline kleptomaniac ex-girlfriend. They find each other again in the archetypal CITY and hook up in a station wagon and that is the song.

This is pop music.

I don’t like this song. It’s lyrically dumb, instrumentally inept, and vocally horrifying. 

That being said, I know a lot of people do (897,256,229 plays on spotify and counting). Honestly, there’s really nothing wrong with liking this music. The music industry has spent decades and billions of dollars engineering pop music to be aesthetically pleasing, so it makes sense that people out there like this track. I just can’t be one of those people.

At the end of the day though, I spent an hour or two typing all of this and I learned something. I really am no better than Andrew Taggart. As I said earlier, “Closer” is just the ranting and raving of a post-hook-up, drunk boy in the city. This review is nothing more than the ranting and raving of a no-hook-up, sober boy in the country. The only difference is I don’t have festival headlining appearances and 39 million monthly listeners. Which, truth be told, is probably for the best.

So that’s that. My review of “Closer” by the Chainsmokers featuring Halsey. If I had to assign it a value, I’d give it a 1.5 star out of 5. If you’ve read this far, god bless you, you crazy person. If you gave up long ago, I honestly don’t blame you.

[erinlennox69]

Creamfields 2017

coWhile enduring the dramatic anti-climax which has been left following the conclusion of Creamfields, I felt that if I put my thoughts into words in the form of a blog post it might help to ease the pain ever so slightly. I’m just going to start off by saying that the overall experience was UNBELIEVABLE. As my first real festival, I must admit that it set the bar rather high in terms of standards. 

Throwing it back to February, the line-up for Creamfields had just been announced. “We definitely need to go this year” Aimee, my sister, would say to me. This was something that had been discussed for the past two years but continuously fell through on account of a variety of reasons. I believed that this year would be the same. I was wrong. My student loan somehow wiggled its way into my account and within a matter of minutes my sister and I had our deposit paid. This was it. We were GOING. 

After leaving virtually everything to the last minute, from the boat tickets to the camping gear, I found myself losing sleep on the run up to the departure day. I panicked myself useless about the concept of driving through Liverpool by myself. I panicked about how many bags my sister and I were going to take with us. I panicked about money. As this trip grew closer and closer, I found myself growing more and more anxious. It was safe to say that I was not looking forward to it. Then, before long, the day had arrived. My sister and I took an early morning trip to Asda to gather up alcohol, amongst other things, before heading to get breakfast. After getting some well-deserved shut eye before packing up my belongings, it was time to leave for the ferry. We stopped to collect a tent from Aimee’s friend, Sam, who was supposed to be meeting us there. He was giving it to us as he was getting a flight over and had too much to carry. We agreed to take it, believing that it would be one of those two-man tents which only required 10 minutes and a general understanding of construction to build. To our surprise, it was not one of those tents but a whopping nine-man tent which more resembled a small block of flats as opposed to a tent. With the backseat of my car, and my boot, being jam-packed with our stuff, Aimee and I could only laugh at how the hell we planned on carrying all of this stuff to the campsite. We laughed because if we didn’t, we would most definitely cry. After an 8 hour boat journey which felt like a sleepless lifetime watching the live action remake of Beauty and the Beast, we had arrived in Liverpool and it was my time to shine in terms of driving. I had managed to convince myself that driving in England was no different to driving in Northern Ireland. Oh, and I was wrong. It was completely fucking different. Northern Ireland was a lot more green and a lot less huge. If I took a wrong turn, there was a possibility that I would end up in North Wales and that was something I took extreme measures to avoid. After driving on the motorway for about 30 minutes, we began to notice signs that directed us towards Creamfields. I don’t know whether I was excited or just buzzing because it meant I was going the right way. Probably a happy mixture of both. 

We paid our car parking ticket and made our way onto a field where there were numerous party-goers ready to get wrecked. I must admit, after the gruelling and traumatic venture to Creamfields, I could have used a drink, myself. We unloaded all of our luggage onto the grass beside our car and with one look at each other, we had already admitted defeat. We most definitely could not take Sam’s monstrosity of a tent with us. We loaded ourselves up with bags, made about 10 steps away from the car and gave up. This was not happening. Then, out of the corner of my eye I noticed these little men with blue wheelbarrows. At first I thought it may have been a hallucination, but then I realised it was a miracle. I approached them and put on my most audible accent because let’s face it, the English have a terrible time at understanding Northern Irish people. Fuck, Northern Irish people have a terrible time at understanding other Northern Irish people. These guys were no older than 25 and looked like they were just there for a party, which is fair play because weren’t we all? They informed me that the wheelbarrows were £20 for 3 hour use and required a £30 deposit in case they didn’t get them back in time. £50 was a small price to pay and we paid it. Skipping happily up the hill towards the queues, we were on top of the world as it seemed that this weekend was finally here after months of (not-so-much) planning. That was until we had to wait SIX HOURS before getting near the entrance. The sun was beating down, I was dying to pee and Aimee was growing more and more agitated as time went on. Not to mention this wheelbarrow was becoming more of a curse than a blessing as we wheeled it in slow motion up a grassy hill. It also was beginning to seem unlikely that we would get our deposit back for it. We finally made it past security and into the camp site. At this point we were past caring. Since I was the only one who knew how to build a tent, I pitched our tent and then blew up our mattresses while Aimee caught rays and got stuck into the drink. 

The second day started off much better. I was showered, fully rested and feeling funky fresh. Also, Sam and the rest of the group were to be joining us so I could talk to someone else that wasn’t Aimee. One problemo: our phones were both dead and we had no way to contact them and tell them where we were. On our way to get our phones charged, we heard someone yelling our names from across the campsite. I turned around to see one tall, green haired girl and another short dark haired girl in a rainbow fringed dress running towards us. Although they were completely unfamiliar to me, Aimee recognised them straight away. They were Claire and Chloe-- Sam’s friends! We immediately followed them to their tent and helped to move their tent away from where they had pitched it (which was coincidentally right next to a man who had shaved his head right down the middle and spray painted the empty space green). When we moved their tent next to ours, we happened to spot a group of guys trying to pitch their tent at the same time as ours. Claire ran over and began helping them and I followed suit. Before long, we were exchanging names. After the ever-so-snappy meet and greet, we all headed our separate ways into the arena. Within minutes of making it to the arena, Aimee managed to get lost so I clung to Claire and Chloe for dear life. Having only met them a few hours prior to this, it was quite the bonding experience. I watched Chloe get absolutely mauled by a mosh pit that she didn’t mean to find her way into the middle of. Although I felt awful about it, it was so horrifically funny that I couldn’t help but laugh. I watched Wilkinson, Sigma and began to watch The Chainsmokers when we happened to lose Claire so Chloe and I decided to head back to the campsite where we found Aimee. Shortly after, Chloe went missing. Aimee and I decided to look for her but with no avail. However, we ran into Claire who was, at this point, absolutely steaming. We headed back to the tent to find that our Scottish neighbours had returned. We were all saying our ‘hello’s’ when a Scottish accent emerged from their tent saying “Is this your pal in our tent?” I stuck my head into the tent to see a small person in a rainbow, fringed dress laying in a sleeping bag. It was Chloe. We decided to let her sleep while we all sat on our chairs outside chatting. Chloe then emerged again after a while of hiding out in their tent. We all bonded rather quickly, discussing our interests and talking about ourselves and most importantly, THOSE SCOTTISH ACCENTS. One particular guy decided to sleep in our tent with the blow-up mattresses and regardless of how much of a fight I put up, he insisted. One of the other guys then informed me that there was an extra tent and that we should put it up so we could have somewhere to sleep as his tent was severely overcrowded and so was mine. It quickly came to my attention that he couldn’t build a tent either so I took control and essentially bossed him around giving him little odd jobs to do. After constructing my fourth tent in the space of 2 days, everyone retired to their own tents, minus me and the two Scottish dudes, all of which had been displaced due to lack of space. 

The following day, we awoke and sat out on the chairs again, greeting each other with ‘good morning’ and ‘how did you sleep?’ Most of the answers consisted of ‘not very well’ as they were similar conditions to that of a shanty town with our heads each being less than a metre to the person beside us, even if they weren’t in the same tent as us. I, however, slept disgracefully well as the Scottish bloke I shared a tent with didn’t snore like Aimee did and I was completely spacious. We spent the entire day chatting again and it was as if we had known these guys for years. When the evening began to draw in, we brought over the Aussie/Kiwi/Essex neighbours we both had and began to play drinking games before leaving to go to the arena. We all went together as if it were a family day out. We watched Nicky Romero, Dimitri Vegas and Like Mike, Axwell^Ingrosso, Marco Corolla and Camelphat. I headed back to the tent relatively earlier than everyone else as Aimee was not in the shape to be staying out any longer and I’m not going to be an asshole and send her back alone. One of the Scottish dudes decided to come, too. (Coincidentally, it was the one who stole my bed the previous night.) He decided to take my bed for a second night in a row, much to my dismay. As much as I enjoyed sharing a tent with this bloke because he didn’t snore and I had plenty of room, I felt like I was overstaying my welcome and I didn’t want to be an annoyance to him. I also didn’t want to be homeless that night, though, so I climbed into the tent and went to sleep. He was a real gent about it, however, so thanks for that. It was easily one of the best nights of my life. The atmosphere was amazing and everyone was in high spirits, other than a few iffy moments had between Aimee and I. Siblings, amaright? 

The third/final day was just a big bundle of emotions. I woke up feeling rather rough so I was reluctant af to start drinking again but alas, I gritted my teeth and carried on like the trooper I am. The guy I shared the tent with and another of the Scottish lads had to head home early in the morning, so that sucked slightly although I didn’t really mind because it meant I got even MORE space in the tent for my final night. We spent the whole day together again and drinking games in the evening became like a family game night tradition. We played a genius game which involved one individual reading out a word and everyone else had to sing a song line which contained that word. Although awkward at the start, the drunker that people got, the funnier the game got. We then headed out. This was definitely the night that I got the most drunk. I managed to sneak a bottle of Russian standard vodka into the arena and I got paralytic. I vaguely remember watching Alesso, Hardwell and Tiesto. I had a rather huge fight with my sister, again, though which resulted in me getting lost and crying the majority of the time (It had to happen at some point, didn’t it.) I tried to watch Eric Prydz but the tent was so packed out that I didn’t get anywhere near it so I decided to head back to the tent to change. By the time I reached it, it was 10:45 and the arena was due to close at 11:00 so I felt little point in going back. Before long, the campsite began to fill up with people. We sat round in a circle and chatted again. I can just about recall getting political with my conversation and that is often dangerous territory for a drunk version of myself, and for that, I am sorry. I went to bed rather promptly that evening as everyone else began to fade rather quickly and it was an early start the next morning to begin the clear-up operation. I adopted Chloe for the evening as it was freezing and I needed someone else to help heat up the tent. 

Waking up the following morning was an extremely bitter feeling. It was the beginning of the end. I woke up with a jolt of energy as I wanted to get everything as organised as possible as most of my stuff was spread between each of the four tents I had pitched, almost as if I was marking my territory. After we all got our stuff gathered together, it was time to say our goodbyes. We gave each of them a rather emotional hug and a drastic uncertainty if we would ever see any of them again. They all took off and Aimee, Claire, Chloe and I sat down to reflect on our time before picking our stuff up and heading on. We decided to leave our tents and our camping chairs behind as it would have been just too much to carry and we no longer had a need for them. We then took off across the campsite to the car park and then to McDonalds to stuff our faces with food we had been talking about for about 4 hours prior. (F.Y.I, the drive back was EVEN MORE stressful.) We then all parted ways in the ASDA car park and Aimee and I headed off to endure yet another gruelling ferry journey back to Belfast.

All in all, I wouldn’t change a single second of the entire trip. I would even do it all over again if time allowed me to. We couldn’t have met a better bunch of people to spend our time with. The music was amazing and the atmosphere made the experience even better. When we return next year I only hope that it can match how good this year was. 

The only thing I can safely say is that if I ever have to look at another can of Strongbow Dark Fruits in my life, I will cry myself to sleep.

EL xx