Alan Coleman

Now that I’ve been relegated to the passenger seat on a full time basis I can gaze out of the window to my hearts content and drift off without crashing. This comes from my mum’s side of the family. On those long car journeys to Scotland as kids she would stare in fascination at the industrial landscapes of the midlands, whilst falling asleep anywhere north of Carlisle.

So, Chelmsford for the first time since we left college. I almost felt like travelling back in time to a long lost era that only existed in those dodgy post war town planning films. You know, Flowers on the roundabouts for this years Britain in Bloom competition, the joys of concrete brutalism and all that?

Anyway, I was quite impressed with the place. No flytipping on verges, fridges and mattresses on street corners or any of that other collective filth that is a place like London. One thing though, I can admit to feeling a little disappointed at not seeing a shirtless man on a green council mower (John Deere), for me that would have completed the suburban dream.

We turned up at Mandy’s friends flat to a hive of activity including sandwich making, packing waterproofs into bags and endless conversations about sneaking booze past security. It was at this point that it dawned on me that I was going to a festival with three women. Which as I suspected it might, turned out to be a great day.

Obviously preparation is the key to the female festival experience. For instance, Just when the munchies start to set in, tin foil parcels appear full of tasty munch. None of this queuing up with students to spend six quid on a plate of soggy noodles, oh no. It’s cold pizza, ham rolls and Tracker bars, all washed down Vodka that has been cunningly mixed with Fanta to avoid detection. If the famous five went to festivals, it would be like this.

And what of the V festival itself? I’ve always found it quite accommodating and accessible, it’s easy to get to and is set in a beautiful park full of enormous oak trees. The natural lay of the land creates slopes so that everyone can see, which also sorts the drainage out. Okay, so the commercialism rampages out of control, and its not going to fare very well in the super cool G2 section. But if you want to avoid the commercial trappings of a market economy go and live in a tepee with Ray Mears and drink beetle urine.

Great to see so may local people there too, as music festivals tend to be fairly white middle class affairs (None more so than Glastonbury) it’s nice to mix with the less obvious festival type, and who better than Essex man

Which brings me to the highlight of the day. Which had to be the people at the festival, reinforcing my belief that Essex produces the most down to earth, best looking and funniest people in the south. Men and boys, well groomed in cashmere tops and spanking new white Lacoste trainers. Girls and women, straight blonde hair, fake tan and this years patterned wellies. Great.

Wicked day out.

PS. Kasabian weren’t bad either!

There comes a point in a mans life when he has to take responsibility for his own actions, put the past behind him and start thinking for himself. For most people this change usually occurs between the ages of 18 and 25, a time when the heady excess of youth gives way to a more measured approach to living.

In short, growing up.

However there are a few people that somehow manage to bypass this transformation. Individuals who, not through any choice of their own, still find themselves behaving like excitable school leavers after a few bottles of cider in the local park.

Although now it’s after a few pints of Vodka and Orange down the local pub, and during uncontrollable laughter the person you’re shouting obscenities at is not the spotty kid from across the road that smelt of piss. It’s the local Policeman or captain of the rugby team, or his wife or daughter or probably both.

Fat Collin is one such person, and one hot night in Kos a few years ago stands out as a shining example of the man himself.

Picture if you will, a busy street on a Greek island, full of neon lit bars packed with young people enjoying themselves in the fun filled atmosphere of a sticky evening. As I sit outside one of these bars talking to a couple from Barnsley I can see a sort of semi commotion making its way down the street towards me. Somehow FC has rolled out of the beach bar in which he’s spent most of the week and has managed to find the busiest part of the resort in which to be, FC.

I can picture it now. He is wearing flip flops, shorts and an XXL vodka stained Arsenal top that struggles desperately to cover an enormous gut that he describes as, “More to push it in with”. The look of demented glee on his face is broken periodically with lines from Rabbit by Chaz ‘n Dave, complete with hand movements directed at passers by who look on in amazement.

He is uncontrollably drunk, and I quickly shield my face so to avoid recognition.

Tripping up the steps he crashes into the bar opposite, in which the rest of the customers decide quite quickly that they no longer want to be. Their departure is accompanied by another somehow familiar Chaz ‘n Dave song that has found its way on to the sound system. Incredible.

Finishing up I make my way over to the now private bar, only to find fatty rolling about on the floor laughing uncontrollably, singing, “I like Piccalilli” at the top of his voice. As I watched, filled with both embarrassment and pride, it seemed like he had not a care in the world. I often wonder how anyone can enjoy a life filled with so much humour and joy whilst being a successful businessman with a great family.

Maybe there’s a lesson to be learnt here?

Anyway, where am I going with this? Bored with being barred from, or beaten up in local pubs, FC has opened a bar of his very own. It opens at 4 O’clock, and in a moment of sheer inspiration he called it, The 4 O’clock bar.

Genius.