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Festival Time

Across the road is a shrieking harpy, sat beside a sign saying "Cherry Smoke". She appears to belong to that specific genre of female American musicians who discover that they cannot play the acoustic guitar and then decide to mask this fact by singing songs that don't so much have words as excuses to voice a twenty-minute-long falsetto "ay-ay-ay-ay-ay" noise through a full octave of notes, never actually hitting one.

This particular example of American Hippie Music has a fucking amplifier. I've got iTunes blasting the Arctic Monkeys at me for writing music and I can't hear it. All I can hear is the girl on the other side of the road, explaining how she wrote this next song because "in the States, like, something really kinda bad happened, yeah? And I took a popular song? And this is how, like, that song relates, like, to that bad thing, yeah?" followed by yet another version of the same musical travesty.

It's too hot by far to close the windows. I'm considering a harpoon gun, but the council may complain when the sharpened tip bursts out of this harridan's back and lodges into the stonework of the building behind her. She's been going for an hour and a half without pause, despite nobody so much as throwing her a handful of coppers, much less applauding.

Where did I put that Insanity Sauce? Tip the harpoon in that stuff and she'd explode. Now that, I'd pay to see.

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