Someone has brought an actual tractor. Someone has brought a flag the height of a small house. Someone has brought about two dozen smoke bombs and is letting them off one by one, like rounds of gunfire. Someone is holding a giant drum and someone else is beating it with all his might. A wheelchair emerges out of the blue fog, crushing the broken glass and discarded canisters and empty Madrí cans under its wheels.
It’s 11am and already the centre of Ipswich feels like a battlefield being looted and pillaged. There are thousands gathered here, descended from the Suffolk villages and the Essex commuter towns and the London suburbs, some with tickets and some without: all here on the promise of joy, trying to grasp and gulp and plunder as much of it as they can.
