Blame it on the Boogie… And Wendy

What a surreal weekend, everywhere you turned it was either Glastonbury or Micheal Jackson, or stories about how news of MJs death spread at Glastonbury.

In the end, most right thinking people – by which I mean not those people holding all night vigils outside the hospital or on the sidewalk by his Hollywood Star, whilst weeping or blaming ‘them’ for persecuting ‘him’ – will probably agree that Michael Jackson made an enormous contribution to the world of music, and pop in particular, and that he was at his best when younger and lets face it, less weird. Another victim of his own success and the people who in a desire to ‘milk the cash-cow’ enabled his eccentricities and spiralling decline.

He has left us. And left us a legacy of great pop to remember him by.

I will also remember this weekend for the less than fabulous night I spent trying to sleep while the celebrants of stag nights and hen do’s (identifiable by their flourescent items of clothing, bunny ears and/or pink sashes) staggered around Brighton. The boys more staggery than the girls because to compensate for their lack of identifying outfits, as described above, the boys had gone for a uniformity of consumption of cheap alcohol, especially it would appear Strongbow, the portable can of choice.

This alone would have been less troublesome but for the unfortunate positioning of our hotel room near the entrance to Madame Geisha’s nightclub, the poor performance of the Hotel’s double-glazing and in particular the emergence of some drunken idiothole at about 3am looking for WENDDDYYYY! And not quietly or productively it would appear, as either WENDDDYYYY! was long gone, or sensibly in my opinion, was having nothing to do with this particular buffoon.

One suspects that one of the reasons for the absence of said WENDDDYYYY may have been her avid paramour’s inability to articulate, walk rather than stagger, or most importantly, to communicate – in anything less than a bellow – the single word WENDDDYYYY repeatedly, which one imagines is a level of dedication likely to become tiresome quite quickly.

Happily I can report that either the lovelorn fool lost the use of his vocal chords or more hopefully fell into the sea and drowned, because after what only felt like an interminable time, peace was restored, by which I mean music plus the screams of laughing girls, assorted sirens and other miscellaneous sounds produced by the midnight to 4am set.

There’s nothing like waking on a Sunday morning in a beautiful coastal town after very little sleep to remind one never to book a ‘centrally located, covenient for all amenities’ hotel ever again, regardless of the circumstances.

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