Arse balls feck

The Rainbow Gathering. I want to give it blog justice by not writing about it when I'm wined and about to go to bed, but that's how you find me so that's what you'll get.

It was a lovely opportunity, in Grassington, Yorkshire to spend a week with about a thousand or so people, on farmland, camping, eating communally-prepared-and-enjoyed food and smile. I'll be honest, I was struggling to just calm my brain down for the first couple of days. England's been winding me up. Favourite popular questions such as 'who the fuck am I?' and 'what the fuck am I gonna do with my life?' and 'what do I do with my painfully foreign girlfriend?' These questions would helpfully and distractedly shamble aimlessly from one brain node to the next. For about two days. It's just not possible to relax when inside your mind/soul wrestles perpetually with despair and uncertainty.

It's still hitting me. Each day I remember another piece of why existing in this country is so tense, so confusing, so bizarre.

Eventually I remembered that thinking is that pointless, annoying bit on the end of your brain and I could start enjoying myself. I could set up tent, go hold hands with a thousand other strangers making a big circle, sing songs of gratitude and then eat some lovingly prepared meal.

One problem. We were all on a remote field in the Yorkshire Dales. In August. Apparently the wind gets a little fiesty in this part of the world. And the temperature gets a little depressed and goes dowwwwwwn.

So however much we would smile and discuss how great it was that hippies could live in peace and harmony and even manage to do the washing up and without drugs or alcohol...well, it was all bollocks because we were just so damn unenjoyably cold.

On the evening of the full moon (the monthly hippy must-do), a raining, windy cold night, the whole team made a huge show in the field and the varying elements were celebrated. Standing, shivering and constantly questioning why I didn't just go back to the tent and put every item of clothing on and get in my sleeping bag and hopefully dream it all away, I watched some very impressive fire dancing and I was priveleged to see Effie dancing in good company for a piece about water.

As a musician, you might expect me to have been getting involved somewhat musically, but unfortunately, I have some basic elemental requirements for performance or jamming so I didn't really get that involved. The only arenas for music were tipi tents with open fires that were so full of smoke it was impossible to see or breathe, or being outside in the freezing cold and rain. So, not really a jammers paradise. Which is a shame cos there were some really talented musicians around the place.

It turns out there's a Rainbow songbook, which is a collection of mantras and bhajans and impossibly happy and cheesy songs about love and gratitude. That's great. We all like a good repetetive singalong now and again. But what about all the best songs like the ones about sex and death? Where are they?

In my tent.

There was a really positive atmosphere there, despite the adverse conditions, and a real attitude of if you want something doing, you must do it yourself. Which is fair enough as there are no official organisers. You want coffee? You don't buy it - there's none to buy - you have to make a fire and do it yourself. And then of course share it with everyone in the vicinity. And they'll do the same back.

Mental note, if I'm going to hang out with hippies again, I'm going to do it in Australia.

So, I'm back in Newcastle planning my musical takeover of the town. I'm experiencing blissful hospitality from Steph and Tom (recently engaged, oh fucking yes) and heartwrenching discussions with Effie about THE FUTURE. Life is just fucking complicated. Where's the wine?

With five hours and six rides, we managed to hitch hike from Wakefield to Newcastle. Good job I think. It turns out it helps being a couple. We gathered, from conversations with lift-givers, that if you hitch alone, most people think you're either a potential rapist or rape accuser. What a strange mentality to have. What a strange country.

"Oooh, but you hear so many stories, these days, you know..."

And as I'm down to my last tenner I am resolved to get out on the street tomorrow and do some busking. I need to summon all the balls I have in my body (two small ones just aren't enough for this task) and get motivated. "Feel the fear and do it anyway," my well-guided parents would say.

I have no boss to kick my ass or threaten to sack me this time. Just the thought of land barons of the future, demanding rent, or friends wanting to be bought pints. Bloody friends.

I need to set myself targets. Hundred pounds before lunch so I can eat at Popolos, perhaps.

I saw a refugee playing accordian on the street today. She was a bit rubbish really and some people gave her pennies. Like me. Sometimes karma needs a little kickstart; a little stimulation.

Blurrrgh.