This will be my last mention of the festival (for this year at least). But I’m the kind of person who thinks if something’s worth saying once, it’s worth saying a thousand times.
Been back a week now and I’m still buzzing from it. Although at the same time, it also feels like it happened long ago.
There are some good, professional (i.e better than me) reviews of the event over at Pitchfork.
I feel quite happy that my visit to Barcelona coincided with unemployment riots, mass death by cucumbers, and some football team called Manchester United playing against the city’s team.
There’s a few pictures of me looking bewildered, surprised and angry over on my Picasa account here.
Once last point of interest: I spent the majority of the festival going “commando”, in part because it was very hot and I wanted to swim, but mainly just for the cheap thrills. You won’t catch me in Barcelona with my pants on.
I decided to opt out of underwear on the first night. I got back to the hostel in the early hours to find my “roomies” already asleep. I stumbled around drunkenly for a bit, before deciding it was far too humid to sleep in any kind of clothing. I whipped my pants of, got half way up the ladder to my bunk, before realising just how drunk I was. I stood there, gripping the rungs – swaying about – and generally being noisy. If my co-traveller, Chris, had chosen that moment to wake up – he would have been treated to a great close-up of my willy flapping about. Anyone else in the room would have seen my white arse wiggling about instead.