I made peace a long time ago with the fact that I don’t have the look. It’s always been my friends that get stopped for photos, my friends that strangers naturally gravitate towards and strike up a conversation with. I normally get pushed to the side and end up holding their handbag, or manbag, as they pose for another glossy magazine. But that was then. That was before I found my missing element. It was so simple. A blue bikini.
At first I wore it because, well, that’s the kind of shit I do. There was also the promise of free alcohol as an incentive. It doesn’t take much… I convinced a newly made friend to join me. We changed in the sparse bushes behind the bar, neither of us realising that there was a change room ten metres away. The bikini bottom was a struggle to get into. There were complaints about the amount of scrotum on view.
We did a lap of the beach bar and then went for a swim. The crowd roared their approval. They were laughing with us! Free alcohol was awarded. Everyone was happy.
Shortly after our parade we both went to change back into more respectable clothes. But of course, our clothes were running away with someone else. Knowing that with my bad knees I could never catch them I resigned myself to spending the afternoon in a bikini, which, it should be said that the most and probably only flattering thing about it was that it matched my eyes. Luckily my other friend gave chase in his bikini and returned triumphantly with our clothes, although minus his underwear. To compensate he used the bikini bottom as replacement underwear. A choice he badly regretted after the first eye watering wedgie.
It was a warm afternoon, so instead of changing into my t-shirt I kept the bikini top on.
I was suddenly a celebrity. Heads turned as I walked by, smiles of appreciation beaming. My hands got sore from the continuous high fives demanded of by the crowds and I had more photos taken of me than all of the headline bands at Positivus combined.
It felt good, and then they started throwing food at me. It was a few hrs later while having some dinner that I finally found the intolerant crowd. I surprised myself with my tolerance of their intolerance. Shortly afterwards the temperature had dropped enough that I put my t-shirt back on, it had stopped being fun anyway.
My ticket to the Positivus festival was a gift from a few English guys I met two nights before. One of their mates had pulled out. I spent the day before the festival shopping for a camping tent, sleeping bag and other accessories. When I got to the camp site on Friday I couldn’t find the English guys and in my search ended up chatting with a group of Latvians. Chatting turned into drinks,
which turned into me joining their campsite.
Letting things just happen, saying YES, taking risks and living outside your comfort zone is so rewarding. Chance had introduced me to some amazing people who welcomed me into their group and helped ensure that I had an amazing few days.
On Saturday the rain came
My tent also proved to be less than waterproof. The sky cleared momentarily while we watched Damien Rice. Listening to him perform Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah then moving into The Blower’s Daughter and finishing off with a bit of Radiohead was an unforgettable treat for the ears.
Then a strange thing happened while watching the Manic Street Preachers. I’m glad the sun had set and I’m glad it was raining, because suddenly I was crying uncontrollably. Surrounded by my new friends, within a crowd of thousands, I felt, alone. I was lonely. The more I tried to dance it off the more tears I shed. We moved to the front of the stage, joined hands and partied in the mud. I cried harder. Like, totally embarrassing!
After the main bands had finished and when the rain started coming down hard again we all made our way back to our camping area. We chatted and drank until the weather made it difficult. My body was aching all over and I was exhausted, so I took this as a good opportunity to call it a night. The morning brought clear blue skies. The camp site was a war zone. People stumbled through the muddy trenches, empty beer cans in hand, their eyes glazed over, their bodies plastered head to toe with mud and often poorly constructed bandages. One man was wearing a nappy. The latrines looked like a bomb had gone off in them and the smell was hideous, one look inside them and I clenched every muscle in my lower body to ensure I would be able to hold out until I got back to town. Donating all my recently purchased camping gear to my Latvian friends I said my goodbyes and caught the bus back to Riga.
it’s been a really good few days. I opened myself up to possibilities and the world delivered. I was given free tickets to an awesome festival and I met an amazing group of people. It’s also been a strangely emotional few days, ranging from laugh out loud happy to bawling emotion wreck, from being nervous, timid and shy to transforming into a gregarious, outgoing, centre of attention bikini scrotum man. It was with my English friends that I wore the bikini, surprisingly the next morning my Latvian friends asked if I was the bikini man that they’d been hearing about. On the second day I also saw another bikini man wandering around. Although he was more modest and had the bikini bottoms on the outside of his shorts. It’s said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery and without a doubt it’s true that the original is always better. So I hope that at the very least he got a free beer out of it.