Edited by Nicklas Kingo, reporting from the Roskilde Festival
One should think after having attended six of these kinds of festivals that you’d built up some sort of resistance towards the whole sleeping in poop ‘n piss for a week thing, but alas, no dice for this wuss. What gets to me is the ever present itch in your eye reminding you that an eye infection is on its way, and the dark hue on your legs you keep mistaking for a tan until you pull down your socks and realise otherwise. But like many others, I was saved by the one thing that makes all these first world problems easily surmountable: Alcohol. Lots of it.
What started out as a few cheeky one’s at the campsite with mates turned in to one of my infamous drunken walkabouts. This usually involves me getting drunk with friends and disappearing for the rest of the night.After my fourth vodka and Monster energy drink (it’s organic, right?) my recollection gets spotty. The next thing I remember I’m chucking goon from a bag at the Rihanna concert.
Much to my dismay Rihanna was wearing a full jumpsuit and a hat – the closest thing you could get to a burqa. To me this was spitting God in the face. It was up there amongst getting breast reduction surgery. Some people just don’t know how to appreciate the gifts the lord has given them. Anyhow, after dancing and singing along with all the other 16-year old girls present, armed with that drunken self-assurance I was sure I was going to be able to utilize my press-pass to get backstage after the show and have a drink or two with Rihanna and all the other jetsetters. I’m a genius when I drink. The next thing I remember is waking up in my tent having to text friends and family excusing the inappropriate texts I had sent to them. This is my usual morning-after-routine: checking my sms outbox and social media to gauge the damage. Surely avoiding changing any one piece of clothing, but excusing it by brushing my teeth right away, I wandered out to see what adventures this day would bring.