Rock, and the monsters thereof

When rocking hard on a sunny Saturday afternoon, one suddenly finds one's thorts turning to matters epicurean. Rocker and myself have up to this point been content to satiate ourselves with watered down Stella/Strongbow combos. Rockette however, is having none of this and disappears for two hours on a food mission. Queensryche have deeply underwhelmed us with their faux horror ways for what seems like years before Rockette reappears clutching this smorgasbord of delights. She demands we partake of the pudgy wedges of deep fried smash, dripping cornetto and extra hot watermelon, but Rocker's eyes are drawn to the freshly minted pack of Smoking Kills and the feisty Chablis. He hoovers up both in a matter of seconds and is sufficiently enervated to sing discordantly
along to 'Wheel in the Sky'; a Journey classic that has aging rockers as far as the eye can see, weeping into their skull mugs. The Milton Keynes Bowl is a gigantic grass amphitheatre which looks like the crater formed by some giant prehistoric meteorite bombardment. We gather our meagre belongings and head for the relative sanity of the grassy slopes in order to take in the crowd from a distance. By the time Alice Cooper comes on, we have become one with nature and can barely wave a lighter to 'Be my Frankenstein'. Rocker has turned a luminous shade of vermillion and has begun chanting in ancient Mesopotamian, I begin to wonder what was in the Chablis. The Sun mercifully retreats and Deep Purple take that as their cue to stomp on the last remaining synapses firing in the puddled remnants of our brains. I too have taken up chanting as it seems the only way to communicate with Rocker. Rockette has gone off to start up a bra fitting concession next to the veggie burger stand, as she says she's never seen such badly fitted bras in her life, and that's just the men. Finally, to the strains of 'Smoke...' we crawl towards the exit, hoping against hope Rockette is able to drive us back to our hotel without any verbal input from her men. Not one to ever let the party end, Rocker whistles up three tequilas, three brandies and three buds from the hotel bar, but this is the final straw for Rockette, who despairs of us and heads for bed. Eventually, and by eventually I mean after having the shut bar reopened to get us a cheeky baileys, Rocker calls it quits, no doubt collapsing like a felled Redwood as soon as he got to his room. I know I did.

Monsters of Rock, we did you proud.

B