I attended your exclusive Caribbean music festival and now I want my money back.

Nobody violates my human rights and gets away with it.


It’s not easy being an Assistant Fund Manager at London’s 19th most profitable investment fund. It’s lucrative, yes, but with open-plan offices on the 28th floor and an IT department that make you change your password every month, it’s not for everyone.

Like surgeons, soldiers, and secondary school teachers, Assistant Fund Managers need time out to recharge. And they’re not afraid to pay big bucks.

Students (and sad sack parents) watch bands from the 90s in the Somerset mud. OK, but that’s not the Assistant Fund Manager scene. The Assistant Fund Manager scene is:

EXCLUSIVE BEACH FESTIVALS IN THE CARIBBEAN.


I found out about the event on Insta. The image of five women on a yacht caught my attention. I slacked a few colleagues and contacts to see if they were up for joining me.

(My thinking was that if we split the fee for a palm tree bungalow, we’d make the whole trip more economical. And company policy dictates that I only need to talk to one client during the event to be eligible to put expenses on the company credit card.)

Nobody was free because everyone I know is so hard working. That’s why we all earn so much cash. Go figure. You can read novels when you retire. No biggy: I’d soon make friends with the six models on the yacht. There was a networking party on a Thames barge once. I could talk about that.


The alarms bells rang as soon as I stepped from the plane. A man, unattractive, stopped me at the arrival lounge and asked for money. (To carry my bags or something.) I don’t fly halfway across the world to be stopped by unattractive men asking for money.

If your staff had any brains, you’d have employed this guy to resupply the toilet paper that was exhausted by lunch every day. AND clean out the hair from the sink plugs.

I gave him $1 dollar. He wasn’t happy.

You know at the start of Westworld when the sexy woman sorts out the guy’s wardrobe and also kind of suggests that they could get it on if he’s up for it?

Yeah, so that didn’t happen.


Let’s talk about my luxury yurt.

  1. I expect a chocolate on the bedsheets. That’s classy. I should have known I was dealing with amateurs when I saw the chocolate was missing. AND my towels weren’t shaped into animals. I’ll tell you what: a swan takes like 30 seconds and its impression lasts the whole stay.
  2. My pillow was too plump. How are you supposed to enjoy a music festival with a sore neck? Idiots. I spent the whole weekend unable to look up.

There was beer at the bar. Red Stripe. It’s Jamaican but I’ll tell you what it’s not: craft. Needless to say, I had to queue for it, despite my silver wristband. Let’s do the Math: say I had thirty pints of Red Stripe over the weekend. What’s thirty times seven? 210. 210 minutes I’ll never get back. I won’t tell you how much I’d charge if you wanted 210 minutes of my assistant fund managing expertise.

(Shitloads.)


For an event pimped by attractive models on Insta, there were:

a) a lack of attractive models; and

b) really sketchy wifi access.


I couldn’t sleep. The sea kept smashing against the beach. You’d think they’d have dumped noise-cancelling sand to guard against this. I don’t pay $1000s to lie awake listening to the sea. I’ve got the Headspace app for that.

Here’s a note to the caterers: if you advertise your fish taco as ‘gourmet’, how about you tell your staff whether the fish has been caught humanely or not? And here’s another thing: customers don’t enjoy being laughed at when asking about the conditions by which fish have been caught.

(The fish taco staff wouldn’t give me their names when I asked. The guy, mid-twenties maybe — about the same age as when I bought my first Audi — was wearing a t-shirt with a tiger on it, if that helps with identification.)


OK, so I went to the beach to party. I was soon offered drugs. The only security guard to be seen wasn’t interested in apprehending the dude, even when I literally pointed him out when he was standing like a foot away from us. The worst thing about all this? Dude didn’t even have any coke.

The DJ, who has a big Twitter following despite me never hearing of him, had all the American marketing executives dancing in their ill-fitting swimming trunks soon enough. I couldn’t see a thing, even though I’m five foot ten which is an above average height for a man and I was the fourth tallest graduate from my MBA class.

On the beach, though, trying to enjoy this DJ I’ve never heard of, I could see nothing but the back of other dudes’ heads. Not cool. Not funny. Where did all the tall guys come from? Here’s a suggestion: how about there’s a maximum height allowed next year? (If there is a next year after this year’s disaster.) Like on fairground rides but in reverse.

ALL IT TAKES IS A BIT OF CREATIVE THINKING, ORGANISERS.

And it was really hot. Too hot, you might say. Full-on sunny.

It wouldn’t have been this way if Coldplay had been headlining.


Inevitably, there was a queue at departures — everybody was trying to get off the island when the festival had ended. Unbelievable. AND there were no nibbles on the flight back to Florida. AND the guy I sat next to stank. You shouldn’t be allowed on any plane if you stink. I’ve often said this. It’s a question of human rights.


Here’s the thing: I might have suffered all this if not for the final nail in the festival coffin: I didn’t get laid. Not even once. I don’t spend $1000s to travel to the Caribbean to not get laid. I can travel to east London to do that — and all for the cost of a single journey on my Oyster card. False advertising, that’s what it is. Don’t be sending me images of Emily Ratajkowski to promote your music festival if the closest I get to intimacy is a lost surfer dude/PR expert stumbling into my yurt at 4 in the morning (he was very apologetic — no harm done — fair enough).

I’m no idiot. I didn’t think I’d get it on with Ratajkowski. If I bumped into her at an after-party, my heavy Rolex and quick charm would work their usual effect, OK, but here’s the truth: the island was full of dudes.

What if the world had ended that weekend? My line manager was only Slacking about North Korea the other day. There’d be no repopulation going down on the festival island come armageddon. Bet you didn’t plan for that, right? Yet another thing.


So, friends, here’s my demand: a full refund. I have 83 followers on Twitter and I won’t hesitate to link to this article if need be. That said, if you could get Ratajkoski to DM me, I’ll tweet about how much fun I had at the festival or whatever.

(Also — I lost my vintage Aviators when a group of locals bet me I wouldn’t touch the face of a dead jellyfish. I did. They paid up, OK, but in the excitement my sunglasses went missing. Any help in this matter would be greatly appreciated.)

Refund.


Humanitarian plea: every green heart helps this article get the attention of the mercenary festival organisers that ruined my weekend. Please give generously.

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