HAIL THE MANWASH!

ALL GLORY TO IT!

(And the glory to the Hypnotoad as well, of courzzzzzzze)

Back from Reading. Sleep has been gathered greedily back from the rock festival snatcherer. Still putting off work though. My will is weak. Even if I arrived on Friday morning and left on Sunday night straight after Pearl Jam. Before it turned a bit Apocalypse Now like it always does.

I will write more about such things as catapulting mackerel, smoking 30 a day and watching sane men turn into urine-soaked, laughing gas-sniffing barbarians. Another day.

For now I leave you with an image of something you might not even believe existed if not for the fact that it really does. Oh, yes. I went to see it five times. It was real.

It was called the Manwash. Partly because no woman was meant to be subjected to its sordid ablutions. Not that I actually think any tried. Plus, if women actually used Lynx their skin would peel off and their teeth would fall out. Someone told me so down the pub.

This was one of those stunts set up by the marketing or advertising gimps from manly shower gel manufacturers Lynx. A trailer was set up with a conveyor belt manned by red bra-wearing, denim-shorted ladies with sponges and special cleaning liquid. Men stood on the said belt and went along as if they were cars. Only this was not metallic object washing metallic object but fleshly things interacting with each other, if as decently attired as it was possible to such moribund dance floorfillers as Lola's Theme. The eye candy danced as if they were members of Atomic Kitten.

One man did pull his Calvin Kleins down to ankle level but cradled and cannoned his love cannon, as the squealing scrubbers went to work. You would too if you were brandishing John Holmes-sized weaponry.

Sorry, this has gone undeniably smutty. For that I apologise. The man should have been lashed with willow branches. Naughty, naughty man. But they still gave him the complimentary free towel and said toiletries. Oh, it was all free: free to watch, free to get washed. Brilliant.

So we watched. We liked to watch. Many watched. It was a refreshing change from another bloody bunch of guitar tykes with unruly hair. I can scientifically attest that more people watched the Manwash than Friday headliners Franz Ferdinand. That's a DJ Fox fact, folks.

And when we heard a fat man had broken it by somehow falling and destorying a barrier, we audibly cursed the fatty. Not that I or anyone I knew went on. We just watched. That's all that was needed. Proper showers at a UK festival? They are never meant to be. Be proud that you reek of a burnt shanty town. Be proud and epater les non-festival goers.

This video will explain more. As well as show pictures of women in said red bras. The same colour of the gel coincidentally enough.