....The morning of Standon arrives and I go round to Micks ‘house’ to rally him for one last charge. As soon as Isabella utters the words, ‘I thought he was with you’, I knew we were fucked. So I go to the place where, if not face down in the gutter, he normally can be found, The French House. One of the world’s finest establishments littered with literary greats this place has seen them all and today it has a drug ravaged skeleton propping up its bar. He mumbles something about Canary Warf and lawyers, but the details are hazy and the profuse spitting and sweating is somewhat off putting so I decide not to worry about it and call a cab.



We arrive at Bishop Stortford 45 minutes later to be greeted by the truly magnificent Kate Stewart. Kate is a dear close friend of both mine and the saucer eyed vulture that is currently gurning away to himself next to me. We met Kate three years ago at this very festival and a friendship was formed from then to this day. She picks us up from the station and we set of to the festival.  As we speed along the motorway eating up the miles with excitement and expectant questions; who will we meet? What will we do? What will happen? Will we make it back? Shaking and jittering with the kids on Ritalin, free from the middle management Nazis that goose step all over our hopes and dreams of rebellion. We are free to do what we want to do and as corny as that sounds it’s that feeling on the way to an adventure that makes it worth it the wind, worth the rain, dam it it’s even worth the comedown, all worth it because for 72 hours rules, reason or rhyme pale into the mist.         


We crash land in the car park, as soon as the doors open Mick is off like a bullet from a gun, charging up to nearest security demanding the owner owes him money and we must be given complete access immediately.  Now festival security is a curious thing, from the snarling pit bulls selling cheap speed to dreadlocked hippies who just do it for the ‘vibes’. The ones here are somewhere in between and they get it just about right. They notice Mick a mile off and deal with him with patience and understanding. It takes all of their Zen like ocean of calm to not rip Mick limb from limb. He commandeers a golf buggy, throws our bags in the back and speeds off to the campsite.  I hang on for dear life as the computer game he is playing in his head twinkle and sparkles in glorious Technicolor.


Originally Standon started as a birthday party for the owner Alex Trenchard and has got bigger ever since. There are about 3000 people here and there is healthy mix of the affluent and ignorant. The layout is three different stages of varying size and the main bar is wrapped round a tree in the centre of the site. They have a theme and this year it space, so littered round the site are various artefacts such as the back to the future car, a tardis and an upside down R2D2.         


We set up camp, grab the press passes that Mick immediately tries to sell for the golf buggy he just wrote off; I decide the only way out is rapid approaching disaster to head for bar and the first band. VV Brown is on the Apollo stage at 20:40 and we make it, late, but we make it. VV puts in a polished performance of doo whop soul, commanding the stage. She rattles off her single ‘Crying Blood’, which is essentially the monster mash in stilettos, and all the better for it. Next up is a cover of the Kings of Leon ‘Use Somebody’ which gives the crowd its first sing along of the festival. Her recent number 8 single ‘Shark In The Water’ finishes the set and I for one quite like VV.  She gives it a 100% and exceeds all my expectations. 


After calming down the security and ensuring that no charges are pressed we sprint over to the Apollo stage to catch the sublime Mumford and Sons, a band that served its apprenticeship as the Laura Marling backing band but now step into the spotlight in their own right. Their songs evoke images that render the listener speechless, the four pieces complete with double bass and yukele AN undeniably powerful force in the live arena.  Vocals boom from the centre of the stage courtesy of lead singer Marcus while the rest of the band set about harmonising the heart strings with songs of once lost and found again love. They finish on their latest single ‘The Cave’ which lyrics that offer redemption through heartache:   


‘I'll find strength in pain. I'll change my ways.’



Rockeoke is next on the Gallalo stage and we float in on a crest of a young dumb and full of fun wave. Rockeoke is karaoke on a grand scale, this time you get the mike and a four piece backing band each one of them living out every rock stars fantasy they ever had. By the time we get in two brothers called Adam and Luke were bashing out ‘Born to Run’. A snapshot of festival life plays out in front of you, god dam it, it’s not festival life, it's the British mentality, right  here,it’s the underdog throwing their hat in the ring, jump in the posters on the wall and sing the dreams,  it’s their shot at the title , it’s theirt chance to sing the songs of their youth. ‘Mr Brightside’ is a song that people will sing in pubs for years to come, Adam struts around like a young Mick Jagger posturing and posing, Luke shakes his hips like Neil diamond on angel dust. The crowd raise to their feet in awe, the underdog won the race, it’s the Ashes, The FA cup final, it’s the champion’s league, Adam and Luke smashed it and they knew it. 


Mick charges into the photo pit cursing at all and sundry that get in his path, waving his wrist bands and smashing through the heartland before the Rumble Strips set that is next up on the Apollo stage. With a new album Welcome To The Walk Alone behind them they put in a gargantuan effort full of chorus’s that could slay dragons and are scattergunned throughout the set. Charlie Walker has a voice as good as anyone in the game. The new tunes are better than the first and after a particularly impassioned ‘Not The Only Person’ the festival and band takes flight.


At Standon when the bands finish the madness takes over…Barbarella is a converted cow shed , yes a converted cow shed situated on the dark side of the moon.  For the next 72 hours it’s studio 54, it the Wigan casino, it’s the god dam hacienda, because for us there is no tomorrow. People dance and people sing as Barbalrella’s takes a hold grip of your anxiety, fucking your ego; within these shit stained walls I am king.  Mick swings in from above, I had not seen him in 22 hours, last known whereabouts was entering a Ziggy Stardust fancy dress party where he was disqualified by way of medical reasons (something to do with doping), but he has since informed me that he protests his innocence and papers have been served in his defence.

The faces you saw in the crowd hours before appear in the front of you, do you know me, do I know you know? Fuck it I’m here, you’re here, let’s have it because god knows when the light shines bright you grab it.  The strobe hits me and my world shifts turned on its axis, I scan for memory and pick out the girl with the kiss of death. What twisted God would do this to me the one I couldn’t see, the one who my heart can’t let go off this is a sick joke? I can’t trust anyone, I look for Kate, for Mick, for anyone they have all left me destitute, desolate and decadent it’s just me and her, the one I met at Standon three years ago, on the Friday night she entered my life and from that day to this, she has had vice like grip.  

I wake up to the sounds of Saturday ringing in my ears, I try to write but words fail me I look around where I wake, a war torn wasteland full of new found friends and fallen soldiers that mere hours ago I was professing my undying love to, but now I could not name for the life of me, I guess they are my family for the next 24 hours I better get to know them, my mind drifts to what mad capped adventures lay ahead for me courtesy of these angels with dirty faces, I wouldn't be anyone else but here....... wish you were here .....









Part 2 and more pictures to follow...

Posted In Festivals, Aug 20 2009. Words - Chris