By Saturday afternoon at Electric Picnic, people of all ages are lying about in the sun. If you ignore the relentless noise, fluorescent lights and sporadic screaming, a sleepy mood has fallen upon Stradbally.
They’re dressed in capes and glittery clothes and cut-off-jeans and friesian-themed one-pieces. Vendors prey on the weak as they stagger around in their hungover state. There are plenty of comedown opportunities. At the My Lovely Horse Rescue area, one can sit on a hay-bale observing rescue ponies being delightful, or, for €1, frolic with ickle doggies.
“I want to kiss a puppy,” says a face-painted chap called Chris Devlin. “Not in a sexy way,” he adds with unnecessary haste.
“A lot of people are certainly using it as a hangover cure,” admits David Gillespie as I wrestle with a big fluffy dog called Harper. “We’re promoting a message of empathy and kindness and animal welfare,” says Tiffany Quinn.
Other things are less conducive to the mental health of the festively delicate. From the Guerrilla Ariel acrobats section a topless man on stilts emerges with a wolf-headed man on a leash. “Ah, lads, not cool,” groans a reclining young man called Dessie.
But it's not all hedonism at EP. A group organised by members of activist organisations Uplift and We're Not Leaving have gathered in Mindfield in solidarity with refugees fleeing into Europe. "Céad míle fáilte is more than just a fridge magnet," says co-organiser Glenn Fitzpatrick.
Pauline Akatshi runs the nearby Akatshi Grill, and first came to Ireland as a Congalese refugee 20 years ago. She tells me that she is moved by the gesture.
By now the atmosphere is lovely. People smile. Toddlers dance. Outside the amazing Despacio tent, where James Murphy and the Dewaele brothers purvey sonically-perfect six-hour DJ sets, there’s a big sign suggesting visitors do not take photographs. “Why not just be there in the room?” it suggests. “Which immediately made me want to take a photograph,” sighs Ticket reviewer Peter Crawley.
‘Mummy what’s that smell?’
Maureen and her daughter have just been to the Salty Dog where there is a pungent “atmosphere.” “Mummy what’s that smell?” asks Maureen’s daughter. “We decided not to explain,” says Maureen.
Here are other things we heard out of context: “Cows are bastards. But pigs. Pigs are okay.” “He got accused of being a baby. Which isn’t fair. He just looks like a baby. A big fat 35-year-old baby.” “Who do you prefer? Oasis and Blur?”
Ruaidhri O’Hannigan is dressed as Mr T, with gold chains and Snickers logos on his cut-off denim jacket. He does not work for Snickers. But the problem is, he says sadly, “a lot of people don’t know who Mr T is. They’re so young.” What do they say to him? “They pity the fool,” says O’Hannigan, giving me a chocolate bar.
A huge crowd have gathered for two important games of sports-ball (editor's note: he means the England vs Ireland rugby match and the Mayo vs Dublin GAA match). "Why we gotta compete?" cries a man in a onesie, misjudging the mood. Honestly, it wasn't me.
Ah, but there’s room for everyone. All life is represented here . . . and all death. “Welcome to your funeral,” says a black-garbed woman at the Huxley Horror Funeral Parlour. “You can try your coffin if you wish.”
“I hope it’s not tempting fate,” says punter Joe Lawlor after passing an organist, walking through a garden of graves, entering a caravan and climbing into a life-sized coffin.
As I leave, a gaunt man in a top hat commiserates. “Please enjoy your wake,” he says, gesturing to the maddening crowd wandering around the fields of Stradbally. “There seem to be a lot of people attending.”
