On the subject of The Prodigy’s so-called only UK date in 2013 (until they just announced another one in December 2013, 3 days before the one at Creamfields on Saturday 24th August).
To see The Prodigy, one must not wear a tracksuit, per the ticket. Though trainers are OK. Per the ticket. Though the Creamfields FAQ does advise wellington boots. Perhaps the kids these days have lace-up Adidas wellies.
To hear The Prodigy, one must enter the Creamfields between 2p and 9p. You will not be allowed to enter after 9p, though you can stay until 4am. This is if you are holding a Saturday ticket, as I do. The ticket will say such things as “hospitality”, which I believe entitles the bearer to one square meal per day, for the vast period of one day.
What the day ticket implies, is that for a king’s ransom (a very unpopular king of a failed and fragmented Eastern European principality maybe five hundred years ago and not subject to ransom inflation), is that you really want to see / hear / experience The Prodigy, and all the other “A Bit Pete Tong” themed entertainment, but are planning on being completely capable of driving home at 4am from a Scouse BFE.
The French motorist is now required to carry two breath alcohol test kits, so that they can perform on demand in front of the Gendarmes. After they’ve pranced along the dotted white lines to the Marseillaise. So given that the psychonaut of the 1990s now in his forties, though dressing like he’s in his thirties plan on doing to alter his mind at the festival? Surely not drinking booze – the most common depressant around?
The frightening reality is that noise, crowds and flashing lights don’t really have the appeal that they used to. I firmly remember buying a strobe at college and sitting with several people listening to loud music underneath a table strewn with black cloth. It seemed like a huge leap forward to human experience – bringing the essential elements of a nightclub to the home. But now I do my best to avoid crowds. To stay away from loud music, and to avoid the uncertainty of flashing lights. Perhaps my need for confusion has been diminished. So as for mind-altering substances, this is what I had to say to in a text message earlier:
“We will have 35cl of tonic wine, some cashews and a slice of millionaire shortbread.”
If this had been the 1990s, that would probably have been like saying,
“9 elephants, 5 fluffy bunnies and a henry of double o”.
Which in turn probably meant a sleepless strychnine infused night of gum-chewing bewilderment. But now I actually do mean millionaire shortbread. After all, the come down is much easier to handle from chocolate, caramel and biscuits when you’re going to be woken up to a couple of rambunctious toddlers.