I finally found a pen at the bottom of the pit of decay I’ve been sleeping in for the past weeks. Real life has not yet seeped in through these drawn blinds and closed doors, but the outside world will not be denied it’s existence and all bills do have to get paid someday. Those who have been following our reports from the frontline of Dour Festival may have noticed the many hours of radio silence that followed our last transmission. Don’t worry; in the end, every single one of us made it back to HQ without any severe permanent damage to mental or physical frames, but after Day 2 in the trenches, sending out any coherent form of communication had become impossible for a variety of reasons, which we will not be elaborating upon now, later or even under intense physical torture. Guess accurately or come see for yourself next year.
After our last broadcast, the POSTRboys ventured back out onto the festival terrain to talk to those mending their wounds in the aftermath of Friday’s pandemonium. Soon enough, we re-established contact with our British squad mates and set out on a new trip through the shelled and shrapnel-scarred territory that was Dour on a sunny Saturday. The situation in the field finally became so intense that we became separated from each other, until every man was left isolated in the midst of chaos. Thankfully, at the end of that ever-darkening tunnel filled with loud noises and flashing lights, we all somehow managed to make it back to safe ground. Well, more or less. One of us remembered that mixing beer and wine isn’t such a good idea so he decided it would be for the best to balance everything out with a quart of rum and whiskey. Unfortunately this resulted in a direct hit to the central nervous system and made him crawl his way back to one of our vehicles, passing out with the trunk popped wide open, feet sticking out. A search & rescue party was sent out, and eventually secured his well-being by shoving his legs into the car and closing its trunk. You can thank me later.
In the meanwhile, one of our frontline warriors had somehow hooked up with what turned out to be the sweetest girl on the entire festival ground, only to find out that she would be moving to – literally – the far side of the other side of the world two weeks later. Oh well, they say it’s better to have loved & lost than never to have loved at all, and I for one am too tired to argue with any of them. But if she happens to be reading this: our aforementioned man misses you a lot more than you think he does, and it’s probably also best if you keep on thinking that. There’s no way to bridge 20,000 kilometers with one single blogpost.
While this short-lived romance was taking place, another one of our agents had managed to drink just about every alcoholic beverage known to man in an ambitious attempt to document their separate effects. This, however, does not work very well if you consume them all on the same night. Needless to say, the intended report never got finished due to severe blackouts that turned the rest of our stay at Dour festival into a big fat blank spot, only not white but black. Pitch-black.
Well, not much more is left to be said except that Dour is by far totally the awesomest wickedest festival in Belgium, and anybody who doesn’t believe that can leave their square ass at home next year, you are excused. To everybody else: see you in July 2010 for a continuation of this year’s crazy cultural carnage.