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A vision of what a post-Brexit music festival will look like

A vision of what a post-Brexit music festival will look like

The nation is still in a state of shock following the decision to vote in favour of leaving the European Union. We're on the precipice of a future in which we leave the EU, Scotland leaves the UK, the Tory right rises, public funding dies - and along with it the health service, welfare system and spending in cultural sectors - and we never have a fair government again. No more openness, no more multiculturalism; we've voted ourself into a recession, plunged ourself into the xenophobic unknown and a subsequent crisis larger than any seen since the Second World War.

Yes, our beloved Britain truly did crash, burn and die last week. All you need do is peek at a pic of Michael Gove, Theresa May or Rupert Murdoch's literal grins across social media or in the papers today to get a glimpse of the grim future in store for us. And if the look of pure evil delivered to you via pair of black-as-coal, sharpened eyes is far too abstract or daunting for you, then don't worry. We can do it for you. We're going to gaze into the crystal ball and ask a poignant question. A burning one that will have an impact on any music fan.

The question is: 'what will a music festival look like in a post-Brexit Britain?' 

You wake up with twisting stomach pains, in need of a glass of water and maybe medication - so you take a walk over toward the welfare section of the campsite. There is no welfare. So you pace over toward a gathering of volunteers. They want to help you, but they simply put a flannel on your head and say 'it's alright': they have no fucking idea. You decide that you'll just have to make do with the pain and head back to the tent.

Curled up with a program, you start to plan your day. Buck's Fizz on the main stage at 12:30pm? Rab C Nesbitt peppering the comedy stage with one liners in the afternon? The Wurzels closing the Big Top? What the fuck is going on? At this point, you're staring down the barrel with a fucking awful stomach ache, pondering the idea of watching Dodgy and squeezing an orange on your elbows to calm you down (valium costs £99 per tablet from your GP). Then you think 'fuck this, I need to get out of here'.

Hoping to settle your stomach, you start making your way over to the main area via food stalls. On the way over, you see a bare-chested bloke headbutting a pork pie. You ask if he meant it, he replies 'who do you think you're talking to?' You remember a cool little art space that used to be here when you came last, it is now a hog roast. In fact, everything is a hog roast. You want a crepe, but they don't exist. You can basically eat a hog - roasted - or go to a bar, so you decide to go to a bar.

Looking at the menu, its prices are listed in pence, which makes you think 'ooh cheap'. However, its contents just confuse you: the word 'Carling' is listed seven times, simply in different colours. Eventually you throw the menu to the floor and think ' fuck it, purple Carling will do'. You start calling for bar staff but, looking around you realise, there are none. A lady is cleaning the dishes to the side of you, you ask if she can serve you. 'I can't, Guv'nor', she says. 'I'm not allowed to work behind a bar, silly face!' So you shout 'Purple Carling' in every direction and at the manager, but he won't listen. He's sat playing with a ball in a cup toy, giggling at his own shoes. You drop to your knees and cry. 

This is the future that we chose.

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