I shall be attending my own personal festival this weekend. It will involve relaxing, reclining and reciting. Hey, I am not talking about the mud encased rock/indie music extravaganza taking place in Leeds and the north of London town of Reading. No, because I am put off by the thought of overpriced tickets, too much rock, mud, thousands upon thousands of people, difficult disgusting toilets, drunken idiots, Metallica and Rage Against the Machine. Urgh.
My festival will see me reclining on a chaise longue in front of a roaring log fire, dressed in a violet velvet dressing gown, supping the finest of Scottish Highland produced whisky. As my servant presents me with another cream horn on his silver gilt tray I shall guffaw as I espy the torrential rain outside the large bay windows and think of the rocktastic boys and girls in their thin canvas tents.
“Who is on the bill Mr Galaxy?” I hear you ask.
Opening the festivities will be ‘Voices from the Street’ by Philip K. Dick, followed by ‘After Dark, My Sweet’ by Jim Thompson and then Lord Dunsany’s ‘Time and the Gods’. Headlining the other stage is ‘The Yiddish Policemen’s Union’ by Michael Chabon. I am looking forward to the headliners – Alfred Bester with ‘The Stars My Destination’.
That sounds like my rock ‘n’ roll.
2 Comments
I’m getting worried about you, Nelson. You seem to be going uphill steadily. You’ll be telling me you’re thinking of trying one of Carol Vorderman’s de-tox diets next.
Pish!
I will have you know that reading is the new rock ‘n’ roll. It’s what all the young uns are up to nowadays, oh and smoking crack cocaine.