‘He’s a greedy man. He wants your phone bill, TV license, water, gas…’, says the Virgin Power salesman crudely interrupting our mid-Saturday afternoon pissed-up all-day-breakfast break. He’s telling us how Branson wants to almagamate every household bill, and that we’d save 26% on our electricity bill with Virgin. He doesn’t like his cola though.
The promise of free chocolate persuades us to sign one of friend’s power supply over to said company, who, in case of blind stupidity, laid on another warm-up for Reading last weekend in Essiixx. Innit mate. Yep, mock-cokney, beered up Essex boys and make-up drowned tarts over indulged in mid-core indie twadder for the weekend proved surprisingly fulfilling. So if you want to know what it was really like, then read on. If you’re easily offended or want to know how Toploader were, then fuck off now. And if you don’t like weak nasty Carling or that piss-awful Virgin cola, then certainly come equipped with pants big enough to hide drink in.
Although having managed to forget all our plates and cutlery, the three-litre home made cocktail had survived our journey down to Chelmsford. Cradled with a bit more beer and some peace and hope, we survived Friday dancing round to The Stone Roses and talking about nothing in particular.