Chin-Zano, Liverpool

I’m guessing from the journey to Liverpool that I was too old for Creamfields at some point between 2003 and 2005. The train is filled with uni students, all dressed as if Ibiza was annexed by JD Sports, drinking buzzballs and talking in that one-pitch monotone that happens when regional dialect gets demolition derby’d. Given the torrential rain there is a worrying lack of wellies, whilst the tents that line the walkways are all two-man Temu jobs that won’t survive tonight, let alone the bank holiday weekend. They have taken the ancient human urge to gather in a field, dance, drink and behave badly and wrapped it in wristbands, branded stages and cashless payment systems. And more so, withholding the point that their raves require PDF’s telling them how to do it, they seem so utterly unbearable. One sneering piggy-faced gremlin calls my wife a stupid bitch for daring to walk past her to the bathroom. I react badly, sadly reminding myself that my barbed tongue has little age…