Andy Flemming’s 2015 SXSW Diary from Austin: World War Geek.

M&C Saatchi, Sydney creative director Andy Flemming is covering SXSW exclusively for Campaign Brief. He hopes.

8:15am. I’m hungover, but nowhere near as much as the guy who wanders into breakfast this morning barefoot and in shorts. He grabs some juice and donuts and stumbles off to the private hell that is his bedroom. We all smile and raise our eyebrows at each other, even though I know I’ll soon need painkillers of some description.

8:40am. Yesterday’s bus was full. Today’s is nearly empty. I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. Last night was geek spring break and fuck me, can they party. Cannes is a rather more sedate affair, with armies of well-heeled men in expensive shirts and cream cardigans around their shoulders drunkenly swaying as they try to pick up female art directors. In Austin, a vast sea of black t-shirts pour from party to party like World War Z until the beer runs out. I’ve no idea what happens after that but the police seem to ring the city centre like Baghdad’s Green Zone.

9:40. I’m in another queue, only this time it’s in the pharmacy. It’s very quiet and everyone’s clutching bottles of water and headache pills. I’m not actually too bad as I ate a huge ‘Wurst’ sausage on the street last night. I had to scrape that bright orange cheese that they pile onto everything off the top just to take a bite.

11:00am. I’m in a coding workshop hosted by a super enthusiastic couple who take us through the history of the Internet. Apparently the world’s first e-commerce site was by Pizza Hut. You could order a pizza online by giving them your name, address and phone number. Then they’d call you back, making the process about five minutes longer than if you’d just called them first yourself. Bless. For a supposed tech expert, one of them has absolutely no idea how to use his lapel microphone. When he thinks it’s off he mutters, “I hate technology.”

1:43pm. I ask directions from one of the rickshaw cyclists who hang out outside the Hilton. As she points towards the nearest toilet I can’t stop staring at her ear. She obviously used to have one of those heavy, hollow tribal earrings and at some stage decided to have it removed. This has left a gigantic hole the size of a fifty-cent piece. She looks like she’s been shot.

2:04pm. Nowhere to eat. Again. Vast queues snake around the block for Chipotle and the food trucks are rammed. There are a few wanky places around but I can’t be bothered, nor will I be going through a door that just says ‘Rowdy’s.’ I’m just not.

4:40pm. I have no idea what a ‘networking session’ is but I’m in one. A young woman walks over and introduces herself with the uber confidence only Americans seem to have. She takes one look at my press pass and actually says “Oh, for fuck’s sake” and just walks off. I’m beginning to realise that to the SXSW faithful, the press are outsiders and ‘unclean.’ There’s absolutely nothing they think I can offer them in the way of a job or sage advice about, you know, the fucking future.

5:10pm. HBO have created a ‘Game of Thrones’ exhibit in an old garage but forgot to install air conditioning. I have my picture taken on the throne and watch a bunch of beards violently swinging swords at giant screens. On my way out I get into an altercation with a delegate by a vending machine that dispenses little branded HBO boxes if you tweet promotional messages. He’s convinced he tweeted ‘#Iwantmythrone’ or whatever the fuck it was first. He gets more and more angry as the machine dispenses my/his box. I toss it at him angrily and he rips it open like Gollum. Inside is a plastic HBO iPhone case. His mate says “Ooooh” and that’s when I decide to get out of there.

6:40. R/GA are hosting a party in what seems to be one of the best bars in Austin. People are chatting about the future and vaping. I see a famous beret through the crowd. It’s Bob Greenberg. He’s surrounded by an admiring horde of what look like young, attractive female hackers. I briefly toy with the idea of wearing a beret but he makes it look good and I’d, well, I’d look like a fucking knob. I make a mental note to attempt to chat to him later, but this idea is crushed not ten minutes later when I look up and catch him watching me taking pictures of the table of cheese.

1:35am. I’ve necked two of my new headache pills for preventative reasons. There are two hundred in the bottle. Cool.