Boardies’22: A pretentious attempt of Woodstock’99

24.08.2022

Slight content warning on this one: drug use, mild violence, domestic abuse

There is a rite of passage for every British teenager when they turn 16 and have just completed their GCSEs, which is to attend a UK summer festival. UK festivals are like no other, a steamy mess of rain, dust and sweaty cider. A true cultural experience. Having attended a few myself, I’ve now realised that sleeping in a piece of fabric soaked in mud, piss and vomit for a week, for the chance to see some bands while pressed against sweaty unwashed bodies is not really my vibe. However there is good money to be made controlling this pack of wolves. So Tash and I signed up for the rather dubiously named “Response Team” which after our briefing mainly involved patrolling the crowds to spot drug overdoses and disorderly behaviour. We also went through a wave of potential disaster scenarios, invariably getting more and more dramatic, including fires, drownings and wandering off the cliff-I can't legally confirm whether all of these may have actually happened during our time. Boardmasters festival is located right in the west of the UK, tucked into the county of Cornwall, filled with the most miserable locals in England. A popular holiday destination, it is the only place in England that makes you feel abroad on a proper beach with actual sand and the off chance you could encounter a shark.

Considering its popularity and that a large portion of Cornish income relies on tourists, it is an absolute minefield to get there. Having taken nearly five different trains, including a comically miniature one, I’ve concluded that this is a deliberate ploy to keep us all out and if you do persevere, it’s merely a test of your determination. Sod’s law determined that a heatwave would hit almost the second we hit the campsite which made staying in the tent any number of minutes after sunrise, virtually impossible without feeling like a sweaty ham and cheese roll. This made the 7am starts considerably easier.

Our days were mainly spent situated in delightfully pink high-viz supervising the car parks, ensuring that people and vehicle were kept a suitable distance from one another. As you can probably guess this was not especially stimulating work, so on our breaks we sought out the only shade in the proximity. Tucked behind a wired fence, we found a small mechanics garage and after chatting to one of them, he casually offered us his flushing toilet and running water tap. We made good use of this throughout our many shifts, though I suspect he may have regretted his generosity when he found us using the shade to store our water bottles which if left in the sun for more than a minute turns uncomfortably tepid.

Being a responsible Steward with a functioning radio and little to report, meant we spent an awful lot of time merely listening in to the other events being projected over the channel. It was usually fairly mundane; lost stewards, a leaking pipe, someone having ignored a WhatsApp message and an occasional member of the public taken ill at which point the age old game of Sunstroke or Ketamine would kick in.

There were also some highlights, driven mainly by the fact the stewards maintained such professionality over the radio; for example there were a number of cases involving IDs being confiscated and furious underage boys demanding to know how to get them back. When asked what their name was, we all listened in but our curiosity immediately gave way to amusement when we discovered poor Louis Walsh had got his ID confiscated. Suffice to say he will not be getting that one back.

Obviously we had to deal with more serious incidents too. The final hour of our first (and especially gruelling) shift, we were dealing with a rather serious road collision just outside the festival grounds. This came after having spent the last nine hours chasing members of the public away from the roads, and convincing Range Rover mums to not run over every human in a bid to get out of the exit one second earlier.

Even off duty we could not escape the chaos. Given that standing under a hot sun surrounded by dust clouds for ten hours each day leaves you feeling rather grotty, we adopted a tradition of hitting the beach for a swim each day. This turned out to be rather more eventful than any of our paid work when, as we prepared to climb the steep cliff back, we ran across a group of lads holding up what can only be described as one of those blow up dolls they hang outside petrol stations. I’m sure there was a human in there somewhere but he seemed to have a particular tendency for flopping rather than walking and his mates were struggling to get him up the hill. Even taking a simple loo break in the hedge proved a challenge when he merely face planted the thorn bush.

After introducing ourselves as stewards we offered some assistance but there was not a chance in hell we were getting him up the hill without vehicular help. So we took a mate along with us and left the others with some water which he promptly threw over his shoulder, missing his mouth and hitting his poor brother square in the face. Having reported the issue, our deeds as Good Samaritans were promptly rewarded by crew catering refusing to serve us, having turned up one minute after closing time. Go figure.

Barely one day later had we returned to the same beach for another evening swim only to be greeted by a fiercely rowing couple, something you do not normally want to get involved in. However this swiftly changed when he suddenly slaps her so hard around the face she falls straight over and the rather absent minded security stood nearby did not appear to have seen. Our Good Samaritanism kicks in again and we report it in full and in the same moment wonder if we can ever return to this beach without incident

(we actually didn't return again.)

Undoubtedly one of the biggest perks of being a Steward was that we had access to practically everything without question: Backstage, artist area, VIP which of course we made full, professional and completely selfless use of. Our evenings usually consisted of watching an artist or two, dithering for fifteen minutes on where to go next and then gravitating to VIP with their short bar queues, posh boys spinning Eminem remixes and most importantly, the only flushing toilets in the arena. Given that some of the porta-loos found in the campsites were so bad, even the cleaners refused to clean it, this was quite the treat. However it was also the only opportunity we had to look in a mirror which was both a blessing and a curse as I managed to capture the iconic moment Tash and I discovered the most horrific sunburn I’ve ever had.

Having ten hour shifts daily also means we miss a lot of the daytime acts which was a shame considering the only acts I was interested in, were on during the afternoon. However I was pleasantly surprised when I spotted one in the VIP cocktail queue and slightly fuelled up on Dutch courage, was able to have a reasonably coherent conversation with them. Thank you for your time SOFY but I wish we’d gotten a picture together.

Given the heatwave and that we were so near a beach, you would as a festival goer rightly believe that water will be provided. This was partially true; there were large water tanks situated all over site containing 2000 litres of the stuff, but when 53,000 punters spend the day in 30+ degree weather, this is quickly drained. This led to a rather unenviable shift spent guarding water tanks to ensure people rationed it and banning makeshift showers, which given that the actual showers cost £4 a pop I wasn’t surprised people wanted a quick rinse under the tap.

The shift started fairly jovially as I had acquired the megaphone and rather enjoyed informing people that only bottles were allowed under the tap and to “refrain from feet, heads, bums and tums” which became the catchphrase of the weekend. But it quickly soured when it became apparent that there was a genuine shortage of water and people were becoming severely dehydrated. It is not a fun job telling people they can’t have water on the hottest day of the weekend and inevitably we were met with backchat. Still I got off lightly, dealing with only disgruntled teenagers whereas Tasha was forced to stop a paddling pool being filled and a middle aged woman who had taken it upon herself to plug in a hose and rinse down passing children. Tasha and I spending the next shift under a cool tent, merely doing admin with full access to Wi-Fi genuinely felt like a fever dream although this bubble was rudely popped when I left on my lunch break and Tasha again was yelled at by a middle aged woman. Things always seem to fall apart when I leave her unsupervised.

Our final shift began at the rather unholy hour of 6am which given that we shared a campsite with the bar staff who were still partying when we arose was genuinely painful. Although we crashed at the somewhat reasonable time of 1:30 by festival standards, I was rudely awoken at 3:30 by some delightful sod chundering by my tent. According to Tasha I was also sleepwalking and talking like crazy so maybe that’s why getting up was surprisingly easy. Yet I’ll be completely honest; those first three hours were a delusional blur. I think we managed a breakfast and wandered aimlessly like zombies around the campsites, handing out green bags encouraging people to pick up their rubbish. My brain too frazzled for catchy phrases, I numbly told people to “clear their conscious, clear the campsite” whereas my co-worker Tom settled for “do you want £10?” which unsurprisingly proved more effective.

The main duty assigned to us was to chase people out of the campsites, which is really not as hard as it sounds as it sounded like security had done a pretty decent job at that already. This gave us plenty of time to listen in on the gossip channel and learnt of all the chaos that had unravelled the night before including, but not limited to: tent torching, scaffolding being ripped off, porta-loos being kicked over, a cage fight, a water pipe deliberately split to make a rather unconventional slip n slide, and turf wars between Pipeline and Jaws campsites which culminated in various objects being launched over the fences including bottles, toilet rolls and even a few mallets. I got the impression from this festival that Covid had ensured a new generation of festival goers were completely unaware of how to behave.

Given the turf war from last night, we were curious at the state of Pipeline and Jaws and it truly resembled little more than the aftermath of a tsunami. We trekked through the endless piles of discarded tents, scooping up hidden treasures. We all had slightly different standards of hygiene as I only took a sealed multipack of crisps whereas others scooped up days old beers, pillows and jewellery. It is incredible how much people leave behind.

One of my final shifts was spent with the chillest security guard i have ever encountered and he assured me, it was not normally like this. Boardmasters seems to have turned from a chill, surfing festival into just another Reading and Leeds where teenagers have not yet learnt to behave and merely want to recreate the Netflix Woodstock documentary. Post-Covid, we need to teach the youth how to festival again.