If Glastonbury is a muddy middle-aged man letting his wisps down once a year in a tie-dye toga, Leeds and Reading are stoned virgins on an unsupervised school trip, and Download is a bearded metalhead happily frying in a giant dusty wok like a drunk king prawn in an Iron Maiden T-shirt, then Latitude this year is a three-year-old called Horace whose parents are keen for him to bypass that awkward 'girlfriend experiment'.

I read Luke's blog about Latitude being the gayest festival he's been to, and did a lol, because between the Pet Shop Boys, Little Boots in her mirrorball dress, the giant pink poodles in the comedy tent and the giant silver stiletto I'd seen all by the end of day one, it was already camper than all the flowery tipis in the campsite. And that was before Grace Jones' shadow had fallen.

Don't get me wrong, I loved it. The more comedy and rainbows in one place, the happier I am. Kids I'm not so keen on at festivals, and you have to wonder how much fun a lot of them are having when they're being made to sit in a wooden crate while the grown-ups drink funny smelling pop and talk bollocks, and a giant scary lady changes hats a lot onstage. However, this does leave the amazing kids area free for anyone who wants to escape from kids.

The highlight of the festival for me was, without a doubt, Shlomo & The Vocal Orchestra, the world's only beatbox choir. When we wandered into the woods to see what had drawn a crowd, we couldn't see the stage, so it didn't sound particularly exciting until we realised what we were hearing wasn't a DJ, but a bunch of people making music with their mouths. Amazing.

Rumour of the festival was that Thom Yorke wouldn't let any other bands play while he was on, meaning that everything ran about half an hour late from midday on Sunday for a bit. Well, when I say everything, I mean the music. Comedy was having none of Yorke's whining and the Early Edition drew an extra large crowd of people who couldn't be arsed with it either.

People tend to sneer at Latitude. They’re fond of calling it "middle-class" – which always leads me to imagine what a "working-class" festival might look like. Presumably a field full of soot-blackened cockneys with their thumbs in their bracers, bending their knees and bellowing "'ave a banana" every six seconds.

Except it wouldn't look like that at all. A genuinely "working-class" festival would feature N-Dubz, Cascada and the very real possibility of being knifed in the guts, and it would be absolutely horrible.

I'm not going to lie. Latitude is posh. There was a moment on Saturday afternoon when a ballet was taking place on the banks of the lake. Gondolas were scudding past, laughter was tinkling in the air… it was basically David Cameron's idea of a "cracking family day out."

But that's just one, easily ridiculed, part of what goes on at Latitude. In fact, this year it wasn't the poshness that stood out, so much as the overarching flamboyance and theatricality. In the nicest possible way, Latitude 2009 was the gayest festival I've ever been to.

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"Latitude weekend," tweeted comedian/'In The Loop' star Chris Addison this morning. "The perfect opportunity to go and burgle some middle-class houses."

It's a good gag - but isn't it a tedious cliché now, mocking Latitude for being 'genteel'?

Sure, it's the favoured haunt of high-haired Hugos, Radio 4 presenters, and marauding squadrons of tannin-ravaged civil servants maxing-out their 'flexitime'.

But it can also be fairly debauched.

These two contrasting qualities often collide in surprising ways: a friend of mine swears blind Geoff Hoon tried to get off with her near the Lake Stage last year (legal disclaimer: I really, really don't believe her).

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A music festival described as being "idyllic, civilised, varied and fun" sounds like the twee-est thing since I heard my housemate and his girlfriend woke up at 4 in the morning to go for a swim with some seals.

But, by jove, I bloody love Latitude. With the Pimms drinkers and the Guardian readers and the cricket jumper wearers, it really is a relaxing weekend in a lovely park that mercifully I don't have to trek halfway across the country to attend.

Mr. Noel Gallagher once called Glastonbury the only real festival, the others he said were just bands playing in a field. With its poetry and theatre and comedy and cabaret, Latitude can easily justify itself as the only other real 'festival'. A little baby Glasto, if you will. Add to this a Film and Music arena and cine-geeks like me are in heaven.

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I have a confession: I am a Latitude-goer. It's difficult to admit this, because Latitude has a reputation as the most middle-class of festivals. It's a bit like confessing to a fondness for Noel Coward plays, or mung bean salads.

In the eyes of many of my fellow NME staffers, go to Latitude and you're automatically an irredeemable toff who dresses like Beau Brummell and wears a monocle, casually lighting fine cigarillos with a £100 note.

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I've had an amazing time at Latitude. It's refreshing to find a festival where organisers actually treat punters like human-beings, rather than trudging, dehumanized turnstile-fodder.

Here are a few of the things that made it so enjoyable:

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