Babs, shut up

So Barbra Streisand played in Castletown House, Co. Kildare last night. Her first ever Irish date apparently. This obviously merits fans idiots paying up to 600e for a ticket. Bitch will be coming back every weekend if people are willing to shell out over a weeks wages or so to sit through this hag wailing out hits such as “Papa, Can You Hear Me?” Yes, I also hate that song, and in my humble opinion, Nelson does it better merit. Homegirl sings this merry little tune while cross dressed in some boring movie that yer Mum likes.

Seriously though, where does this bitch get off charging such high prices, basically milking her fans for all they are worth. I wouldn’t pay that much to see my favorite band/singer, just out of pure protest. It’s absurb to think that someone deserves this kind of money for prancing around on a stage doing something that comes totally natural to them. Does she think she is some sort of elite? Obviously.

A hefty security team is also expected to protect her from prying eyes while in residence at Dublin’s Four Seasons Hotel. Reports suggest the 65-year-old singer will be guarded at all times to ensure fans or even hotel staff do not approach her or even look the performer in the eye. Funny girl.

If I came across her I’d challenge her to a fucking staring contest.

I almost felt bad for the smug smile than came across my face when driving around in a torrential storm of rain yesterday. Karma. Or else God is pissed off that someone is trying to rob his crown. Fancy that, fork out 500 squids to be muddy and drenched whilst a pissed off ‘deeva’ belts out yet another slow ballad that sounds suspiciously similar to the ten others that came before it.

My Mum was utterly disraught that she isn’t a moron and chose not to go the the concert. I was proud of this decision, but started to wish she had of. All of this morning I subjected to hours of Barbs LIVE in concert CD while she ironed. Luckily I soon became numb to the sound of aging hags, so much so that many a customers order at work fell on deaf ears.

Just another American that thinks all we do in Ireland is eat coddle. SIGH, you’re so predictable darling. I’d rather see you down a pint of Guinness like our man Justin Timerlake. At least he humoured the stereotype a bit.

Barbra. Babs, can I call you Babs? No? OK Babs, come back down here, it may be lonely and pays less, but please, come join us in reality. Before you get smacked into it.

Poxy-gen

Festival fever is in full swing. Fever being the optimum word. The amount of pure, disease, circulating the grounds was just outstanding. Toilets and vomit integrated with the mud, the mud then took it’s place among food, sleeping quarters, clothing, skin, hair, drinks. Mud was everywhere, and if someone spotted somewhere (or someone) lacking mud, they were sure to correct it with a mud fight or a nice round of ‘kick the puddle’. Despite adopting a new ‘brown’ look for the weekend, the mess and rain didn’t interfere with the craic and the brilliant music on offer. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it enhanced it. But then again, I’m young and able. What harm is a bit of mud? My mother made sure to enlighten me on the subject when I arrived home in the wee hours of the morning looking like I had just been planted and dug back up again. She was less than impressed with me, but I had at least sobered up on the bus journey back, thanks to some randomer who sat beside me and procceded to tell me about her experience on e. Thanks love.

Favourite bands of yesterday, are hard to pick. I’d certainly stick Calvin Harris up there near the top, amazing atmosphere in the green room, improved further by the roof caving in and creating a waterfall amongst the crowd. The Arcade Fire and The Killers also showed us a good time, was pretty pissed off that I had to miss the majority of Daft Punk’s amazing set though. The Kooks disappointed me, they didn’t really seem into it. Even still, a crazy dance session to ‘She Moves In Her Own Way’ in a puddle ensued with some random people, who I’m guessing, had more alcohol than blood in them.

I must say, the place was pretty well organised, considering the amount of people in attendance. Food stalls mainly sold shite, which came in handy after a few too many Heineken mixed with bacardi and 2 week old sangria. ‘Two sips of that and you’re anyones’, the wise words of Megan. I did have a hard time walking through the crowds with a hot dog in my hand though. Many a person looked like they were about to pounce on me for a simple lick of it.

Despite the pain, despite the rain, I had friends, great live music, great drink, great craic, and a great skin exfoliant. Until next year, Oxegen.