Latitude Attitude

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Latitude and Luke Wright (see former post) are somehow synonymous in my mind. I have never attended such a large gathering of almost exclusively white, middle class folk; this dominant whiteness was the constant butt of jokes in the poetry tent and was, frankly, embarrassing.

The whole event, like Glastonbury, Reading etc. etc, was organised by 'Festival Republic', a richly ironic misnoma if ever there were one. Festival Republic is responsible for the overall 'security' and running of the event. This amounts to a shockingly large number of newly appointed goons running round with walkie-talkie devices and wearing combat uniforms. However, their powers to 'stop and search' seem to be outside the remit of any normal legislation.

As a ticket-holder you have contracted in to the conditions of the festival, which include incidental 'stop and search', long-winded, random searches and removal of all matter that does not comply with festival rules, i.e. everything consumable including bottled water. All has to be bought and consumed on site, it seems. This kind of draconian measure was in evidence everywhere as you queued for twenty minutes to enter the arenas with megaphone-wielding attendants telling you to keep to the right or the left or wherever the hell they wanted you. It struck me and a bunch of lads on one occasion that this whole 'performance' compared strongly with the situation in which folk queued for the showers at Belsen. We had built up a bit of a busk on the topic by the time we were level with the FR guards (did they have ranks or am I imagining it?) and I was plucked out of the crowd for a random search by a female of the species asking: 'Step this way, sir, if you don't mind,' as she tugged at a stray strap on my bag and pulled me across the 4 or 5 deep crowd.

I protested. 'Let go of me. Take your hands off'

'I am not touching you, sir. I am touching your bag.'

By now this 'sir' was being spat through gritted teeth and, indeed, it punctuated all subsequent exchanges between me, the other security guard at a table who searched my bag and yet another kind of plain clothes variety who stepped in from nowhere to see what all the fuss was about. The refrain from all members of the team was along the lines of how they could have me ejected from the festival at any point. Was this what I wanted? they asked. They coaxed me towards the correct response after several failed attempts. I had to say 'please, I would like to stay at the festival' in order to meet with their approval. This too was said through gritted teeth on my part. I felt like saying: 'stuff you and your ****ing festival'.

This kind of interaction is worthy of some analysis. It left me reeling with contempt for the organisers, resentment that I should be treated in this way having paid a whacking £160 to be there in the first place, a profound sense of the collaborator's humiliation and hatred for the whole facade of moneyed promenading, everywhere evident.

By the time I got to see the Grace Jones Show, (queen of burlesque?), I had calmed down a bit. I thought she was astonishingly good actually but was amazed that she was cut off during her volumes-speaking personal response to what was, after all, a very muted appeal for an encore. This was something to do with a ‘curfew’?! However it typified the heavy-handed, anti-festival kind of organisation that seemed to be in place generally to manage the event. The audience were baying consumers, and I was among them: but I suppose this kind of multiple choice programme urges a sort of Edinburgh-style culture consumption: the need to rush to the next event on another stage or in another marquee.