Glastonbury Survival Log

1st Day

12:20 Gotta drop my health or the Dutch Guy™ won’t crawl out of the bushes. He’s out there somewhere, clutching overpriced bandages and psychic nonsense about Amsterdam. Classic move: wait for someone weak, then strike.

12:20 Tevvie’s staring at me like I just declared war on common sense. Fair.

12:25 — Checklist for Summoning Scammy Dutch-Accented People:
– Run into the circle during bad weather → damn sunshine, need a rain dance first.
– Eat dodgy food → done. (Suspicious sandwich abandoned under a tree. Courageously devoured before ants claimed it.)
– Weed puffs → double done. (Amnesia + Northern Lights. Greenpeace would be proud.)
– Skip rest & hygiene → achieved. (Party in progress with sheep + one druid who thinks he’s a DJ.)

12:35 Now just waiting for fate. The moment we sneeze, the Dutch Guy™ will sense blood like mock-Astarion and appear, hissing:

👉 “Ah, traveler… you look 'alf-dead, ja? For only tree thousand geld, you take zis sacred survival kit. Blessed by ze Taciturn Psychic Lady—very mystical, very taciturn. Cash up front, eh? No discount—dat is geen geld, vriend!”

12:53 Feeling amazing and furious at the same time. Northern Lights, you sneaky little traitor. Why are you making me this happy and healthy?!

13:08
“What’s this thing for?” I ask, pointing at a weird wooden mortar and pestle the ancient druid is holding.
“Oh… you put your weed in it,” says the druid.
Thanks, ancient druid dude… but no thanks. Not even thyme right now. I mean, I do have time… but no thyme. No more herbs for a while.

13:36 Why are my feet so far away? Who extended my legs without permission? Tevvie, was it you? Like when you tampered with my headphones?

13:48 Can’t make heads or tails of this anymore… One sheep, two sheep… three Tevvies. Lost already.

14:02 Improved my skills in Ancient History. (By staring at a Stone Circle for 20 minutes. The rock stared back. Intense. Academic papers incoming.)

14:02 (yes, again) I guess I’m really an urban type. Life is dull and lonely out here… except the sheep are definitely plotting something. Shopping maybe.

14:08 I wonder if people can tell that I’m high right now… (Spoiler: they can. I just told a trash can “thank you” and bowed.)

14:15 This adventure away from civilization is slowly but surely affecting our health—but mostly mine. I abandoned my toothbrush. It wanted me sparkling, but I wanted myself filthy. My deodorant filed for divorce. (Fine, I filed for divorce. He promised freshness, but what I really want now is a committed relationship with bad smell.) So yes, there we go, my dear Dutch-accented dude… anytime now.

14:29 Alright, alright, alright. Groovy! (A squirrel just handed me a nut and disappeared into a bush. I should carry a sign: Don’t feed Ashley.)

14:49 I think the joint’s worn off now. (But then why is my shadow dancing with Tevvie?!)

22:41 Tevvie had the audacity to kiss me while smelling like… well, imagine a dumpster that lost a fight with a skunk. Anyway, we slid into my sleep bug—basically medieval torture disguised as nylon.

2nd Day

07:23 Tevvie is still alive. He’s breathing. Honestly thought my smell might kill him.

08:12 Weird man with a weird accent: nope. That’s Frenglish. Don’t annoy me.

16:18 This adventure away from civilization is slowly but surely affecting my health. (Part 2.) Just bartered half a cereal bar for a sip of suspicious “potion” in a Fanta bottle. Might be Lucozade. Might be hallucinogenic swamp water.

16:37 Update: the Dutch Guy™ still hasn’t appeared. Maybe he fell into a hedge dimension? Must weaken further… considering ritual sacrifice of my last pink Smartie.

16:55 — Emergency thought: If I die here, bury me under the hazel tree with this caption:

👉 “Here lies Ashley. She listened to all the accents possible—but not a hint of Dutch.”

18:02: My boots? Half-taped Frankenstein horrors. One sole practically living its best life on the wind. Fashion statement? Absolutely! A bold spring trend, guaranteed. 

18:52 Health: 25%. Shower? Not in two days. Food? Whatever scavenging deems worthy. Smell? Probably banned in three countries. 

18:54: Still zero Dutch accented whoever. Optimism? Present. Or maybe that’s just desperation with better PR. Either way, works for me.

18:57:  Emergency thought n. 2: If I die, make it a funeral like those in New Orleans. Jazz band, dancing in the streets, second line umbrellas, the whole deal. Don’t you dare give me a boring service. I want glitter, brass, and someone twerking on my coffin.

23:47 Cramps. Stomach in full rebellion. Maybe civilization taking revenge. Maybe just my period knocking on the door. I beg for mercy with a dramatic bargain: not now, not here, not with a druid DJ as my witness.

23:55 Aspirin swallowed like divine nectar. Immediate relief. Almost suspicious. I’m finally drifting inside the torture-nylon cocoon they call a sleep bug…

3rd Day

02:02 A shadow. It moves. It creeps closer. Resigned, I whisper with Shakespearean despair:
👉 “Alright, take me. I’m ready. I won’t resist, sweet Death…”

02:02 Then I add quietly: “Not you, Tevvie. I’m talking to Death. Don’t steal my spotlight.”

00:04 The shadow speaks.
With a Dutch accent.
Not Death. Him.

02:03 "Ooh ja, zis aura... very wicked, my friend! You must speak to my psychic lady back in Amsterdam, very powerful—here, take zis number, eh? Don’t say I didn’t warn you!"

02:06 Adrenaline blast. I spring up like someone injected six Red Bulls straight into my veins. Goodbye cramps, goodbye nausea, goodbye sleep. The Dutch Guy™ has arrived. He showed up, as cryptic and cologne-soaked as expected. He gave me the look, muttered:

👉 “You... have ze shadow... she will see you.”
Then vanished like fog. No survival kit. No scammy sales pitch. Not even a wink.

02:16 – I stood there, disappointed, like someone who dragged out a whole picnic just to get ghosted by the sun.

02:42 – Not even bombs could wake Tevvie. Tried whispers. Tried shaking. Tried kicking his boots (politely). Nothing. Man’s become a druid rock.

02:45 – Tevvie? Still snoring. Didn’t even stir when I brushed his cheek.

Whispered into the nylon void:
👉 “You missed the scam Minty…”

02:51 – I looked down at the paper in my hand. Proof it wasn’t a dream. Proof that Dutch Guy™ was real. My very own artifact of nonsense.

🔎 Item Analysis – CSI Mode Activated

Description: A small piece of paper where someone has written a phone number.
Category: Documents
Size/Encumbrance: 1%
Produced: Mass-produced
Quality: Abysmal
Material: Paper
Colour: Violet
Special Info: A vague, mysterious sparkling aura surrounds this item.

03:07  I need water. To wash. To drink. To wake up Tevvie. Basically, to resurrect civilization itself.

03:12  Wandering around in the dark like a half-baked cryptid, eyes peeled for anything resembling a farm, a well, a river, something. Even a bucket abandoned by a lazy sheep would do.

03:27 – The search continues. If I don’t find water soon, I’ll either:
a) barter the CSI paper-number for half a bottle of Aquaaaaaaa,
b) cry until I hydrate myself,
c) start singing until the rain comes. (Note: my singing skills are so poor that even the sheep might file a noise complaint.)

03:33 – Considering option c. Desperate times, desperate tunes.

03:55 – I sang to Tevvie. It sounded truly abysmal. The sheep scattered like I’d dropped a wolf into their group chat. The druid fell to his knees, praying to whichever deity handles “noise-induced apocalypses.”

03:56 – Tevvie twitched, groaned, and buried his head deeper into the sleeping bag. He stirred in his sleep, frowned like a man being haunted by tone-deaf banshees, then promptly rolled over and resumed snoring.