I WENT TO SPINOFF SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO

Words by Sienna Sulicich

I bought the ticket with not a fuck to my name and forgot about it for a solid eight months. Suddenly, I was supposed to be living it up to a Fergie rip-off in a sea of glitter and stiff nipples. Sounds erotic, but that’s not quite how I remember it. Maybe it’s the single Vodka Redbull I managed to consume that day, or the second-hand marijuana smoke stinking up the mosh-pit, however I seem to recall having a fucking awful time. Fucking awful is probably a mild exaggeration. It was exceedingly average-at-best, and I probably should have seen it all coming [insert specsavers joke or something, I don’t know].

It didn’t really matter much who the line-up was to me, I’m not a huge festival music lover, I just wanted a taste of the atmosphere. The atmosphere was not tasty. The atmosphere tasted like sweat and hormones and warm double-blacks. There was a single stage, which in all honesty was rather unimpressive , with a big ‘no moshing’ sign sandwiching either side. ‘No moshing’ was a rather arbitrary guideline. Instead, we were packed titto-tit in front of the stage, unmoving, while listening to some okay music. I found myself counting the mole hairs on the back of the dude in front of me (an impressive five) to calm my breathing. Examining body hair is not necessarily relaxing - I must ask my therapist for an alternative. and some overpriced nuggets would help (shocker, they didn’t). I still can’t distinguish one moment from another until about seven o’clock, when Mr Tumnus was due to make an appearance.

There’s nothing quite like having a panic attack to Jack Harlowe’s First Class. At this point I think I could make a substantial playlist of songs I’ve panicked to live. Honourable mentions include Elton’s ‘Crocodile Rock’ and Hugh Jackman’s rendition of ‘Waltzing Matilda’, but this probably deserves first place for both its retrospective laughability and inappropriateness.

Overstimulated and undermedicated, I trudged on through the sloshes of shitpiss that dribbled from the port-a-loo’s near the exit, slid like a log down a toiletbowl into my uber, and fucked off home. I’ve never taken any hard-core drugs but I imagine that oh-fuck moment of terror is quite similar to the warped version of me I quickly became as I sat in that sweet man’s Uber. I battled it off like an absolute legend (I probably looked like a sweaty piglet) until I got home. And don’t you worry, I never half-ass anything, not even this - snot, tears, food excrement from a variety of exits; I’d really out-done myself this time.

If you were really keen to see an artist, Spin Off probably would’ve been absolutely worth it. However, Jack Harlow doesn’t really butter my biscuit and I didn’t even

make it to Glass Animals (poor effort Sienna, poor effort).

I thought I could be a festival girlie. I thought that if I chucked on my tutu and my craft glitter - definitely not eyesafe, don’t recommend - that everything would be okay. I know I’m not built for this kind of carry-on, hell, some days I can barely manage the supermarket, but I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. What I learned was that I couldn’t do it, and that’s okay. Big events like Spin Off aren’t for everyone. They especially aren’t accommodating for neurodivergence or disability, but that’s a whole other article.

I am not and will never be a festival girlie. That is okay. I’ll take my glittered, tutuclad ass elsewhere (preferably somewhere more quiet with a book and a Kirby plush).