Journey To The Middle of the Crap Stage (with the Blind leading the Blind)

Whatever ‘Princess P’ made of The Big Chill, for the rest of us it went down more like this…

They say if you want to make the Almighty laugh, tell him/her/it your plans. Our plan was to get to the Big Chill and hang out with the Crap Stage – nothing too complicated, you’d think. On reflection, that off-the-cuff remark about the gods being with us when the right connection thundered into Camden Town station just as our grotty festival trainers hit the platform, was a little, shall we say, premature. A sudden announcement that the trains weren’t stopping at Kings Cross had us bolting for the door one stop later, right into a tear-streaked, robust and shouty blind lady, who finding herself at the narrowest part of the platform with no sign of her designated London Underground staffer, was having a bit of a paddy. With no-one else around and a ten inch gap between her and a live rail, it soon became clear that the 15-minute ‘transport-bollox’ safety-net we’d built in was not going to be enough. Still, it was a learning experience. We learned that 1. “This way” isn’t a very useful instruction when guiding a blind person on to a crowded escalator, and 2. If the only thing you forgot to pack is tissues, that will be the thing the aforesaid snot-caked, crying angry individual will demand the minute she’s safe. Wet Wipes don’t really cut it. Needless to say, (with a 20 minute delay on the Metropolitan Line thrown in for good measure), we missed our designated train. Whatever.

 

Look, we would’ve driven, alright, except neither of the adult swimmers actually drive and we didn’t even know if we were all going until late Thursday night, on account of the fact that we were doing a bit of a moody sponsorship manoeuvre, and had to blag our tickets off bands. So big thanks to Tony at Metropolis, Ted at Koko,  Semaphore and Basement Jaxx for coming through – trouble was it was only by Thursday night we had procured enough to get a driver innit. And we spent our actual ticket money on getting bootleg Robot Chicken Star Wars 2/Crap Stage t-shirts made instead, so confident were we of our ligging skills. We know; useless non-driving, London blagging fop-bastards.

Our friends at Urban Delights were taking the legendary Crap Stage to The Big Chill, having recently enjoyed a victorious return at the Isle of Wight Festival. Building and operating a working stage on a flatbed truck, with lights, amps, projector and DJ booth takes a small army – so piggybacking on their ticket allocation wasn’t an option. Plus, our sponsorship was more on a ‘helping mates out’ understanding than mad cash, logo-frenzy levels – we bought them a gazebo for their guest area and a Swingball set, plus we sprang for a bit of the rider (lovely, lovely booze money) and insurance (we respect health and safety, us).

Several ciders, several trains, and some cheese and wine later, we get to Great Malvern, far too late for a shuttle bus. Check in to a local B&B (one of us is carrying a back injury and refuses to camp) which appears to be run by Des Lynam’s even smoother twin (“If you are going to be coming in a little… late… this key lets you in the side door. Our check-out time is eleven. Shall I book you an alarm call?”) Not one word about the fact that one of our number is dressed like some kind of general in the raspberry army. You soon get the feeling everyone in Great Malvern tolerates Big Chill weekend as a bit of harmless money-spinning out-of-towner tomfoolery.

In the blazing sunshine of late afternoon we get to the Big Chill and after the usual trial-by-guest-list, we hoof all our laundry bags of t-shirts, sunglasses, posters and Robot Chicken Star Wars 2/Sealab 2021/Frisky Dingo/Venture Brothers/Aqua Teen etc etc DVDs (Crap Stage Pub Quiz prizes) past field after field of campers, including a Bodysnatcheresque field of rent-a-tents (prices start at £350; the one in our number with no tent and no room checked). A Big Chill steward directs us to where the Crap Stage is on the map – the very, very furthest highest of the high points on the site – in the Enchanted Garden at the top of the hill.

You see that encampment in the trees at the very top? That's the official location of the Crap Stage, that is

 

It’s not there of course. Just a load of reiki massage tents, a disco shed and some jugglers. The Monkey Tree House was there though, doing a pub quiz. Its Crap Stage-ish wood-look had us going for a minute. After the sun-stroke/wheezing wore off a bit, we slogged back down through the Technicolor assault on the senses that is the festival throng (with 50% more Family than the average festival!), back across the bridge over the lake, where a small child asks about the band of Polos on my battered cowboy hat. “Are they from Mighty Boosh? Are they the Hitcher’s?”  Good spot little girl; you’ll go far. On we trudge, past the Tree of Wedding Dresses and up the hill to a lone encampment on the brow of the opposite hill, and throw ourselves into the welcoming arms of The Crap Stage family. Apparently, due to torrential rain on Tuesday, and the stage being on wheels at the end of the day, they moved them to drier terrain.

Not the Crap Stage: the Monkey-bluddy-Tree House

So we really ARE off the map now, people…

 

What happened next? Hmmm… it’s a bit of a blur, but there was a feeding frenzy when we brought the t-shirts out – Crap Stagers aren’t backward in coming forward – plus, we’d already done a bit of groundwork, sending a couple of Robot Chicken screener DVDs over that had gone down really well, by all accounts.

Ta Daaaaa.

 

Baby. Bunting.

Our homemade adult swim bunting – a sterling team effort from the office (who knew we had people who could iron, never mind sew, on the crew) – went down a storm, and was quickly thrown up around the table football and fence perimeters.

 

Crap Stage Family Portrait

We went for a wander, obviously, but not as far as we would’ve done if we’d had a torch; in the dark the squelching mud was fairly perilous. We saw some music: Spiritualized (bit underwhelming if we’re honest), Penguin Café Orchestra and some warbling blonde who seemed pleasant enough. The Rizla tent/party-rink-type-situation was particularly memorable for its happy housey rammedness. The fairy-wings were out in force, forsooth…

 

The Crap Stage has acts pre-booked to play on the stage every day, the rest of the time the DJs keep the mood up, with sets from Harry K, Stikka, Malter and Paul Kodish from Pendulum, a founding Crap Stage member and the kind and generous host of the camper van where lots of quality hanging out went on by the adjacent ‘Bob Moore’ memorial bench.

The Mighty Rej

Back there around midnight we bumped into Rej, the bass player for the Mighty Boosh, who had just woken up after two days of solid socialising. We asked him about the rumour that the Boosh were in the middle of sorting out a tour in the States with, ahem, *cough*, [adult swim]. We could tell you what he said, but then we’d have to kill you.

 

 

A Crap Angel by the name of 'Sphincter'

But it’s later still, after the mainstage entertainment has shot its bolt, that Crap Stage really comes alive. Pumping out a steady stream of dub, hip-hop, drum and bass, soul and mash-up party tunes as the sun retreats and the cold sets in, the Crap Stage’s purple and green flashing stage-lights lure the punters up the hill like a boombox child catcher waving lollipop glo-sticks. At 1am Harry K moves from the decks to the stage, cranks up the bass and kicks off a live set with fellow Urban Delights-man Malte Hagemeister. Suddenly the Crap Stage audience swells to a bopping, bobbing mass. By 3am it’s heaving with the lightly toasted, waving their neon rave toys and maintaining their groove with fuzzy, grinning abandon. It’s a dead nice situation.

 

After running amok, freaky dancing and talking shite for what seemed like an eternity and five minutes consecutively, we left at 5am-ish. Walking down the dirt-track, through the

...or maybe it was James? Either way, he was a proper gent

acres of snoozing tents, our breath steaming up the frosty pre-dawn air, none of the cab numbers we collected from the hotel, (“special rates for OAPs”) were switched on. We’re not usually religious, but right then, we were mentally cashing in the karma chips on the blind lady Good Samaritan scenario. Hell, Baby Jesus owed us. Thank Buddha (or the sub-prime mortgage defaulters of Illinois), there were loads… And, no, we didn’t abandon our homeless soldier. They slept on the floor.

 

We came, we saw, we Crap Staged. Bastard train bollox meant we were snookered into dobbing off returning to the fields on the Sunday. Proper gutted. Bastard joy-sucking Fat Controller.

 

When they get back to their own beds and get some sleep (most Crap Stagers were there from last Tuesday) we’ll get the rest of the story out of them – how the pub quiz went, origins of the Crap Stage, the story of ‘Phillipe’ the Crap Stage dog, what exactly happened to our beer etc.  They had Jamie (and Christian ) shooting pictures the whole time so we’ll also get some proper pictures, taken by someone who knows what they’re doing. At least, that’s what I think we sorted that at some point in the early hours…

 

Crap Stage/Pendulum's Kodish is the man with the Glo-sticks...

And yes, ‘Princess P’ got one thing right – the shittest bit of the whole experience, fittingly enough, was the chemical crappers – hailed as ‘award winning’ on the Big Chill website (by who? Fungus the Bogeyman?), they were rank enough to stun a blindman. But the Crap Stage? It was The Shit…

 

 

Emma, the genius behind the 'wood look' Crap Stage set, and the Hairy Angel

Urban Delights 1am show

Bunting

party people 3:30am

The Robot Chicken was on heavy Rotisserie

PRINCESS P – SHE’S NOT PC

This week, Adult Swim’s high-maintenance, low-pain-threshold princess reports from The Big Chill.

 First and foremost sincere apologies for the slight delay in bringing word from my latest assignment; it took two whole days of intensive scrubbing (and plenty of tears) to feel clean enough in body, spirit and mind to even approach my laptop. But here goes.

I’d always thought that chill was what waiters do to your champagne glass before the arrival of the bottle of Moet. Silly me, in fact it’s a music festival.

In a field.

In Herefordshire. (that’s near Wales)

Adult Swim were sponsoring a stage at the festival and Him Upstairs thought it’d be a good idea for me to get my beautifully-proportioned rear over to it to ‘check out’ the vibe.

The first thing that struck me as the taxi pulled up was the variety of tents that the ‘chillers’ call home for the weekend. Some enterprising individuals had even assembled grandiose Red Indian wigwams – although I’m told that it’s frowned upon to call them by that name anymore, apparently they’re Native American Red Indians these days. After undertaking a march of military proportions – I’d like to see Napoleon climbing high hills in high heels – we finally made it to the main area. Very loud music was blaring from the various stages and people of all shapes, sizes and ages lounged around in the sunshine dancing, drinking and eating. There were stalls selling food from every corner of the globe; Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, ‘Look at these delightful Moroccan meatballs’ I said to my photographer cum assistant. An organic falafel and a Pimm’s later and I was starting to enjoy myself – not even the leering attention of a group of unwashed teenagers could dampen my spirits. My per diem had stretched to a beautifully-woven Nepalese blanket (it’s good to give something back to those less fortunate don’t you think?) and I was stretched out on the ground in front of the Sanctuary Stage watching the sun slowly set. Idyllic.

My good mood quickly evaporated when I made my first trip to the Ladies’.

OMG!!!!   

I’d prefer not to go into the finer details of my Big Chill toilet experience; suffice it to say that it was my first and last visit and that I am now of the opinion that despite millions of years of evolution some people are not very far removed from the everyday habits of our primate cousins. The indescribable stench was still under my fingernails and in my hair 48 hours later. 

 

Duty called and as the temperature dropped markedly I made my way to the Adult Swim-sponsored Crap Stage. Crap’s not really part of my vernacular; apparently it’s a common word (common … quite) for that disgusting filth that nannies wipe off children’s bottoms. After another climb that would have had daddy’s second cousin Sir Ranulph Fiennes calling for the oxygen mask we reached our destination. The Crap Stage had attracted a solid following and I was soon swaying to the beat with my fellow revellers. I’d always been of the opinion that DJing was a profession not dissimilar to working on a production line in its simplicity – now I’m a convert!!! Mixing tracks unfamiliar to me with popular crowd pleasers (tell me anyone who doesn’t like to go ‘Bonkers’?) the early hours sped by and before I knew it the time had arrived to unload the needle from the final record (a DJing term I picked up from my new friends) and make my way back to my hotel in the nearby Victorian Spa town of Malvern. It had been a long day (and night!) but it had been well worth it. Mark my words, you’ll be hearing more from these guys who run the Crap Stage – and you’ll be hearing more from me in the next few weeks and months in my capacity as Adult Swim’s intrepid reporter.

Until then, thank God for Wet Wipes – and leave no turd unstoned.