27.12.2006
Four
lV
http://www.netsaga.is/media/files/Melody.mp3
"I had been an A-student all my compulsery years in school and I was third from the top of my class on the final tests, only Greta Pals and Matti Kjartans
were ahead of me.
I along with my best friend, Guy decided to attend a senior-high school (Menntaskoli) at Laugarvatn, which is a tiny village up in the country;
along with a few of our schoolmates;
Svenni, Boi, Biddi, Mummi, Kristin and Hildur.
The summer had been quite fateful in many ways;
I became sixteen, got drunk for the first time and had some kind of sex with a woman without any one´s help which was quite a funny experience for me when I look back as an adult.
After I´d finished compulsory school in Keflavik I was employed in a shrimp-factory by the name of Baldur Ltd., which was owned by two former
fishermen;
Hroi and Oli Bjoss who later became a member of the Icelandic Althingi (parliament).
One of my jobs was cleaning the place after other work had finished.
We were two guys, who had all the cleaning on our hands, myself and another one who was already in his twenties;
a fine musician who´d later become the church´s organist.
Two things make me mention my former work-mate;
one is that he drank a lot and the other that he purchased for me my first bottle, an Icelandic strong wine called Hvannarot relished with Icelandic herbs and he recommended strongly.
We are four friends of the same age who decide to travel together and share a tent in the Husafell-forrest in Borgarfiord, where a festival is to take
place this Tradesmen-Weekend, the first weekend in August, 1971 supposed to be the greatest festival of all times, with all the best bands and other entertainers.
The anticipation and suspence is just about turning us into madmen, because we´d heard so much about these festivals of orgies, highly recommended by our older and more experienced acquaintances.
But there´s one drawback; in the ad for the festival we notice that the search for alcohol will be stricter than ever before, and the guests are encouraged to have a good time without alcohol.
-There won´t be no problemmo, boys, one of the most experienced informs us.
Just hide them bottles in your sleeping-bags.
There´s the most secure place, my friends.
Having had this counsel we become a little less anxious, because without the booze there couldn´t have been any fun, us being so awfully shy with the
ladies. We find it quite amazing how people can be transformed into different persons just with the help of some alcohol; becoming humorous, funny and last but not least free of the terrible shyness that bothers most people, including us four friends.
Of course we are aware of the other side
of drinking; violence, black-outs and the hang-over, but we believe that´s what happens just to others.
In spite of the acquaintance´s good advise we couldn´t help but feeling despair, when our local bus stopped in the back of a long line of cars and
buses infront of the gate to the paradise and the suspence didn´t leave us when we saw how the festival´s staff removed everything from the baggage
compartment of the bus infront of us and then they made a thorough search in every item reaping a few bottles for their effort. -I always knew he was a bloody liar, Kiddi moans with sweat beading on his forehead.
-Ye, you can trust no-one anymore, we agree with our friend´s nervous statement, the three of us bathing in the same kind of suspence-perspiration.
The relieve is undescribable when we noticed one of the staff giving our driver a sign to carry on through the gate without any search in our
luggage. Later we heard that because of the overwhelming attendance the staff decided to search every other bus.
With dusk and darkness in the evening illegal activities were performed in every tent.
I for one did exactly what more experienced friends of mine advised me to do.
I went to one of the booths and bought me two small cokes very overprised which the conductors of the festival found very appropriate.
When I´d returned to our tent and located my liquor deep down in my sleeping-bag I drank the coke down to the bottle´s shoulders, deflower the
Hvannarot-aquavitae, make a funnel with my hand around the neck and fill the coke-bottle with the liquor. I was going to become drunk and happy in a
short time. The anticipation and the assurance of becoming both amusing and free of the ghost of shyness which has bothered me for such a long time keep me from giving up drinking all together when my taste-bulbs protest strongly to this filth when it enters my mouth.
I feel the fire burning down to my butt, because of how large my first sip was.
For a while I´m just able to sit with an open mouth and tongue hanging out hoping for some first-aid cooling supposedly preventing severe burning on my delicate and inexperienced organs.
My friends who have been sitting by my side in the tent watching me the guinea pig roll around laughing when they see my wry face.
They presume that my liquor was too strong, so they blend theirs accordingly.
Myself have learned the hard way and pour coke up to the top of the bottle.
My further action that evening isn´t worth mentioning, except that I managed to stumble after some more drinking between the tents towards the
bandstand where people were dancing merrily but I being drunk as a pig kept on tumbling between and around the other adolescents who some were as drunk as I or less as it goes. Just before the dancing stops this first night
of three I crawl back to our tent and with much difficulty I imagine I found my sleeping-bag where I´d laid it down between Biggi´s and Kiddi´s. The last I remember from the night´s adventures are the angry sounds full of disgust from either one of them:
-Oy, you´ve puked on my bag!!!!!!²