His eyes were glazed. He looked at me but he didn’t see me.
He was topless, despite heavy rain, and covered in a terrifying mix of mud and paint, like some primeval beast.
He staggered forwards, aware only of himself. And he wanted a fight.
I looked to my right and left. Others were around.
A loud scream would perhaps attract attention, but judging by the noises emanating from the crowds, people would just think I was enjoying myself.
A steward could be hailed, but he’d probably be more interested in checking my wristband than helping.
I had a brief vision of me being slowly bludgeoned while an organiser stood on, demanding to know how I got in to ‘soft arena four’.
No no, that wouldn’t do.
Perhaps if I quickly went topless myself…
T in the Park can be a scary place.
Luckily I escaped the clutches of that deranged alpha male with a deft duck into the Snog yoghurt bar.
Not the finest of exits I’ll admit – and it has doubtless done little for my ‘mud-cred’ – but nevertheless I lived to fight another day, probably literally.
It doesn’t do much for the confidence though.
Alone, in a single tent, it is difficult to tell friend from foe.
Does he really want a beer, or is this some obscure method of throwing down the gauntlet? Who knows.
The weekend is branded a music festival – but in reality it seems a thin veil for people who want to just do whatever they desire for 72 hours.
Drink, fight, rob, steal, take drugs, shag – even camp.
It is lawless.
I’m not sure what happened to the Rambo I stared down. I imagine he’s enjoying himself though.
And I got a decent yoghurt too. Small mercies.