amongst the stars, reaching for the gutter – an atheists account of the Greenbelt 09

I would like to begin this piece by talking about my beliefs for a second. Shit, I’d like to start AND end everything that I write talking about myself because my ego is that large, but this time there’s a reason. I would describe by beliefs as an ‘open minded atheist’ or in darker moments a ‘cheerful nihilist’. I don’t believe in a God per se and find any religion a bit silly, an evolutionary set of training wheels we should have set aside long ago. Now I say these things not to upset, I know of at least one Christian that will read this, but to explain the filters of my perception so you can understand my observations. It’s important to me that people understand that what I am about to write is not aimed to provoke or antagonise any Christians or ridicule or torture them in anyway, the Romans did this far better than I ever could. And I must mention this is how I spent most of my teenage years – kicking against the ultimate authority figure, seeing as my own parents were so bloody reasonable and permissive.

The idea to go to Green Belt was first floated to me by my good friend, fellow ne’er-do-well, raconteur, and the most interesting artist that refuses to call their self an artist I’ve ever met, Jon Bounds. Who, because of his interesting art stuff and general all-round intertubes knowledge, had been asked to speak at literature tent. If a film were to be made of Jon’s life I would suggest that Philip Seymour Hofman starts practicing the slight Birmingham accent and obscure midland references. The idea gradually gained momentum throughout our social circle because of my own internet reputation – remember I’m not a drunk heretic, but I do play one on the internet. ‘Imagine that’, thought my friends ‘Danny at a Christian festival, I wonder if he’ll kill anyone’. Truth is I’m not like that, well okay I am a bit, but I’m also very mindful of my friends and as I was a guest of both Jon and another Capo of the Brum Twitter mafia, Benjamin Whitehouse, so it wasn’t that likely that I would be charging about cracking skulls with a wooden sword converting people to Wodin.

The Greenbelt started on a farm in Suffolk in 1974, as Ben told me ‘in a field where you dug your own toilets’ but has since gain popularity. Originally, five years ago the move to Cheltenham racecourse prompted the lowest attendance in the festival’s history but since then, perhaps because of the very non-festival like child friendly faculties, the numbers have quadrupled. And it is a very good use of the space* with many places for the huge programme of speakers, a network of tents, a skate park, lecture dome and literally acres and acres of spare room. This is in sharp contrast to the sticky, shouty decadence of the Cheltenham Gold Cup, which is a cramped masculine orgy of sweaty rich men drinking and fighting in rude abandon.

What I did want to do was Find The Story, get about and report on some hidden weirdness, odd sub-culture or unsavoury practice that I could expose. And I found nothing but a bunch of nice people, sorry. The first thing you notice as you walk through the gate, trying to stop the bottles of beer that are ‘expressly forbidden’ from clicking together, is that all the people you see could be picked out of a crowd as Christians, that is to say clean, tidy and radiating the aura of niceness you normally find with the morally clean and friendly. It is both at once very comforting — compared to where I grew up, where the stains on peoples souls make people look greasy — and unnerving, like turning up to a party in a tux only to find everybody in shorts and flip-flops.

Even the rebellious kids are nice, while making our way to the main field I spotted a teenager dressed in gangster fancy address, he looked like a five year old had described to him what a Crip looks like and he had copied that verbatim. He was all baggy clothes, different colour neckerchiefs, and a drawn-on tear tattoo, like a hip-hop clown. I noticed his friend had a can of larger, clearly flouting the ‘no drinking in anywhere but the designated areas rule’ and the ‘no outside drinks rule’**, when approached by one of the stewards the situation did not become tense or confrontational, the teen obliged with the request to put the drink in the bin, but not without taking one final defiant sip.

Heres a tip me and Jon discovered while looking for our tent, if looking for a landmark to orientate you by on a map, a perfectly round Big-top is not the best thing to choose. While we waited to be shown to our allocated tent, I surveyed the scene. To my left over the main grandstand light was breaking through the clouds shining specific beams of sunlight onto the crowds and tatty flags while the strands of a rock anthem drifted over the tents with the smell of canvass and Tai food. Eventually we found our tent, and it was had in a double airbed fully inflated for us to share. I gallantly offered the choice of ‘Big spoon or little spoon’ to Jon and as we threw our stuff into the tent we discussed the various tactics to avoid ‘roll together’.

Having the chance to walk around it was seductive to think that it could be possible to spend all weekend here and never really encounter anything overtly Christian. This isn’t quite true. It’s certainly true that the stalls on site are the last of the festival circuit earning a few extra bucks before the winter. On site we saw the ubiquitous drumming circle present at every festival in the world, ever, who by the way never once stopped their pretentious pseudo hippy bullshit instruments all the time we where there. A stall selling fairy wings and wands, which is a step to far surely, isn’t it bad enough being asked to stick the whole son of God thing without being asked to believe in fairies***. And, hilariously, some sandal wearing sap selling ‘Gong Showers’ for a tenner a throw, a gong shower seemed to involve sitting with your back to a giant J. Arthur Rank film gong while this hippy gently wafted around it with sticks and his girlfriend sat at your feet with a sappy grin on her face.

more after the cut

We started drinking and went to see the excellent Dan le Sac and Scroobius Pip on the main stage, and they were really good. Obviously feeding off the energy from an enthusiastic crowd and probably a little surprised, the crowd were mostly teens and parents with toddlers which wouldn’t be my first choice of audiance but proved to be a lot of fun – minus all the shoving and unpleasantness you would normally get from a festival crowd. Fortified by snuff and the hipflask of bourbon in my stomach we went wandering. We found Robo Disco a teenage drug free rave with music by a surprisingly competent DJ and a ten year old in an amazing robot suit dubbed ‘MECHA-TEN-YEAR-OLD’ by Jon. And later settled into The Jesus Arms, one of two legal places to but drink on site, where I met a group of very articulate and engaging young Christians who I embarrassingly engaged in drunken discussion about their faith. Now I have spoken to many people about their faith, I am not a lazy Atheist, nor am I an evangelical one, so I am constantly asking people to explain what I see as the inconsistencies in the word of God, and trap doors of organized religion. Not only were these young people very patient to indulge a sozzled heretic but were even able to answer some questions that have stumped many other, older, Christians. I won’t mention their names because it would embarrass them, and I can’t read the writing in my notebook.

That night I learnt that Jon snores at exactly the same frequency as someone who was asleep close by, and my Ramones T-shirt glows in the dark.

The next morning was a blur of hangover, but I remember trying a ‘Stoddie’ which is some sort of northern bap**** and making very good use of the free tea in the contributors’ enclosure. Apparently that morning, in deference to the swine flu, at the large communion they anointed hands with holy oil and bumped elbows in greeting, which when think about it is less weird than drinking blood and hallowed cannibalism. That afternoon apart from seeing the inspirational Gene Robinson talk about sex, love and our attitudes to love, which I have to admit we only went to because the panel for Simon Mayo had a huge queue, I had a lot of time to think about the festival.

I had a good time, but not the best time I’ve ever had. Which is how I feel about the festivals that I’ve been to before. The things that make this festival so successful and enjoyable are just not present at other festivals; I’m not used to adequate toilet facilities that smell of lavender. The dirt is not there, the muck, the decadence and adventure that is the essence of your average music festival doesn’t exist at Greenbelt, and it shouldn’t, its not the space, audience or ethos for that. Fun exists, friends meet, and art flourishes at Greenbelt, and it makes me a little sad that I still cling to a media constructed received model of cool. Maybe it’s because I’m too young or so old I’m romanticising things – I know that if I had a family Greenbelt would be a great weekend.

Thank you Ben for tolerating me and thank you Jon for inviting me. Same time next year?

*this is not the ‘good use of space’ phrase said in the art world when you can’t think of anything good to say the art.

**Which, if they were not honest Christian soldiers, I would I think has more to do with the gouging drink prices.

***I don’t believe in Fairies by the way, and every time you say that on the internet one thousand billion fairies die.

****and throwing it back up again – Thought everyone in the toilets would be disapproving as I left, but they just were concerned, which is worse