(Note: guy can also mean girl.)
Festivals are a shared experience that each and every attending participant has invested a considerable amount towards. Take Splendour in the Grass for example. Consider all 27,500 punters and their money, sunken into the ticket, drinks, a new outfit and travel. Consider the hours put into getting there, the hours worked to afford it all, and the extra hours put in to get the time off – the logistics are just staggering. So why in the father-fking name of Lana Del Rey do you think it’s OK to ruin it for the rest of us? You. Yeah, you. I don’t have to specify, it’s abundantly clear to everyone here who the gaping sphincter is.
Don’t be that guy who aggressively pushes everyone out of the way to get to the very front…
… but then proceeds to not only talk throughout the entire goddamn Sigur Ros set, and have the gall to do so with just the dumbest conversation ever (yes, we all can’t believe they’re all the way from Iceland either, would you like a cookie?), change cigarettes every five minutes, drop your cigarette and make it everyone else’s fucking problem, use your phone as a flashlight and nudge everyone out of the way for your piece of shit durry, then pose in front of the stage for twenty photos. You look like someone tried to put out a fire with an axe on your already munted looking face, no amount of re-takes will change that. And don’t get me started on your m8y pot8ys, who come stomping in half-way through the otherwise ethereal performance, yelling your name, to have you respond with theirs, until you reach each other.
Don’t be that guy who not only starts to purposefully punch and kick people’s head in the mosh…
… but grab people by the waist and toss them around, find cans and other beverage containers to peg at the unsuspecting, harassing everyone in a twenty metre radius for another hit of whatever you’re after, tear your own and random people’s clothes, and just yell at the top of your dumbass lungs for no apparent reason. Not even trying to sing along. Hell, not even anything to do with enjoyment. Just primal yells to remind us all what an embarrassment you are to humanity. A real misstep of evolution-type operator. Yes, we get it. Your dick is regular sized. Stop trying to make your porcelain masculinity everyone else’s problem. Either learn to behave like a good little gym rat or stick to Stereo with the rest of the seatbelt strapped Zyzz rejects. What are you going to tell your grandkids? That you were a stock standard douche in your prime years? Live, love, and lick one, meathead.
And finally, don’t be that guy that obnoxiously sings along.
Yeah, fine, enjoy the moment, vibe out, but take a break from your off-key wailing. None of us paid good money to hear Delilah Smith from Bondi screech half-correct lyrics to Australia Street. We’re here for Sticky Fingers. No, I don’t think Dylan Frost will magically notice you, up on stage, two hundred metres away, surrounded by other screaming fans and sound equipment, and no, I certainly do not think he will pick you out of the crowd of thousands to join him on stage and live a happily ever after. So please, ease up, get some oxygen in you for like half an hour. Then we might all get the chance to hear something other than what can only be described as a someone putting something in, and indeed, pulling something out of a feral cat.
By Garry Lu