A DAD'S LIFE:Sparks fly as festival collides with wedding anniversary
WE HAD something of a stand-off a couple of weeks back. The missus likes to attend Electric Picnic each year, while I would rather spend the weekend in Mountjoy than in a field surrounded by thousands of people congratulating themselves that they’re still hip.
All right, that’s a little snipey, I admit. But come on: does nobody else think Electric Picnic is a three-day retreat for the tragically self-satisfied? Am I alone here in my begrudgery? I feel alone on this point, judging by the EP love-in on Twitter that weekend, very alone, but I just do not get it.
I read a review that congratulated the organisers for decorating the trees with wooden fish. Another article raved about “delicious ostrich burgers”. Trees festooned with fish and ostrich burger treats? There was also the usual griping about camping, but not much said about the tunes. Fish, ostrich burgers and concern about hard ground and noisy neighbours at a music festival. Seriously, I’m sitting here blinking and bewildered wondering was I hit over the head and woken in a parallel universe, some place where the quality of ostrich is a concern and people go “ooh” at wooden fish in trees. Somewhere people are surprised other people will have vocal sex in tents. At a festival! Imagine.
I also tend to exaggerate my disdain for EP at home, coinciding as it does with our anniversary. Last year I laid it on thick that she’d rather spend time with ABC (who were dusting off the gold suits for the night) than me. And really, who wouldn’t? The reality is I’m delighted for her to head off and eat ostrich and not have sex in tents as long as she doesn’t make me go.
This year there was an additional complication. My life has become ridiculously pure in recent months. All bad habits have been jettisoned to support my latest habit, the habit that has gripped a huge percentage of middle-aged men and women over the past couple of years. The triathlon habit, and yes I recognise the sadness of slagging off EP while sliding into a rubber suit. The festival clashed with the Kilrush Sprint, which we had planned (before realising the double booking) to attend with friends and make a weekend of it. All our kids could hang together as the dads convinced themselves they still had Olympic potential.
So we have the Picnic, the sprint and the anniversary, all vying for attention. She wants to go to the Picnic, and I really don’t mind but, because I’m a miserable git, I have to lay on some guilt, fully believing she’ll take it on the chin, feel a little contrite, and go anyway. I’ll bring the kids to Kilrush, we’ll anniversary alone, I’ll have the moral ground when we return, pretend I was upset we couldn’t be together on our special day, and everything will return to normal. We’ll both have had our fixes – ostrich for her, embarrassingly slow transition times for me. Kids, too, a weekend of full immersion with friends, parents on hand only to supply food on demand.
Instead she comes home the week before and tells me she’s sold her ticket, so we can have the weekend together. She had felt bad last year when she realised how much it “meant to me”, and this year she wanted us to be together and to support me at the triathlon.
How bad do I feel? Not bad enough to tell her to buy the ticket back, but quite bad. The anniversary? We’re not exactly Mr and Mrs Loved-Up; we’ll cope. The sprint? At this stage, after seven races over the summer, the only support I need is for my fragile ego, which is crucified by the sight of pensioners on penny-farthings overtaking me on hills. The Picnic, where she can kick up her heels, child- and husband-free for a change, is the only event of the three that means a whole lot to either of us, and I’ve guilted her out of going.
She comes to Kilrush and we have a nice time, but the Picnic reviews in Monday’s newspapers that have me guffawing with contempt have her all misty-eyed at what she’s missed. It stayed mainly dry for a change. There were no running battles with teens, heads buried in plastic bags of glue. The line-up wasn’t inspired but there were pretty fish hanging from trees.
I have the credit card out waiting for the chance to buy her next year’s ticket, and will do it gladly. We can shift our anniversary to a less congested weekend. I am a bad, bad man.
abrophy@irishtimes.com