Global Gathering 2008 - The Tuborg Blog!

Adam Murcutt, the Gigwise Tuborg festival blogger, is back with another festival under his belt. Last weekend, he ventured onto an airfield in Stratford-Upon-Avon for a taste of Europe's biggest dance festival, Global Gathering. He reports back on the madness that unfolded...

From Sutton to London to Coventry to Stratford-upon-Avon via Kenilworth, it's like a magical mystery tour. For this weekend Long Marsden airfield has been transformed into a dance fans Mecca. People with questionable music taste from all over the country have put all their worst clothes into a (fake) Burberry travel case and stocked up on face paint. The Topshop princesses are out in force, strutting it out in bright pink bikinis and enough gold jewellery to make Big Ron blush. Their fellas trail them like a shadow, faces half way between a scowl and a gurn. It dawns on me that I'm gonna need a bigger boat to catch this shark. The jacuzzi is bubbling and the music is starting. Too many tents to choose from, we go from trance to techno to house in the space of 100 yards.

Luckily Kanye West is here to bring people together like a hip hop Princess Di. Me and Keith (named changed for legal reasons) are on a mission to stay awake for as long as possible, and we go dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing. Ha ha, I see someone in front of me fall over. Oh wait, it's a mirror. We need more fuel but it's 2am and the bars are all closed. We stock up at his car, have a wander and stumble across a secret watering hole. Dave (think Terry Nutkins with a beard) is our host. He's a no-nonsense man, like a Vietnam vet who's 'seen it all maaaan', he can turn in an instant. His main gripes are people pissing on his sofa, calling him Bill Bailey, and 'having a dodgy looking face'.

Like solar powered Duracell Bunnies the sun gives us a second wind. We go back to meet Keith's friend Kevin (name changed for legal reasons), a man with an extraordinary talent of lactating from his nipples and an unhealthy obsession with Lidl. Hour 31 and I'm casually making my way back into the arena having stocked up on a few beers in the car. I was trying my best to look inconspicuous (whistling to myself and reading text messages) but the police decided they didn't like the look of me and felt it necessary to ask me to remove my clothing. Luckily I was wearing my best pants and Turner and Hooch sent me merrily on my way. The hottest day of the year, I'm melting. Light at the end of the tunnel appears in the form of free bottles of Tuborg lager in the press tent. I grab a 5 minute chat with Sam Sparro and then Robyn before watching the aforementioned acts on the main stage.

I wander round with my iPod on listening to some Smashing Pumpkins and everything feels ok in the world again. Sleep deprivation brings hallucinations, every step seems like one giant leap for adamkind. I give in to the need for sleep and crawl into the tent but it's too hot and then too cold so I go and watch Mark Ronson (plus his usual assortment of guests) on the main stage. I have a final stroll around the arena and grab myself a well deserved bratwurst sausage. A ten minute nap by the bungee jump leads to an hour of sweet sweet sleep before I'm rudely awakened by someone being sick 5 yards from me. The hangover I've been trying to avoid for the previous day now decides to join my party and I barely make it to my tent before passing out with sheer exhaustion. A morning tea and cigarette sees me right and the magical mystery tour home begins (minus the magic and the mystery).