No more sleeping in tiny houses made of nylon
And so we bid farewell to yet another summer festival season. No longer is it appropriate to eat an entire box of Quorn mini eggs washed down with a can of lukewarm lager for breakfast. No longer will you have to pack clothes that can withstand four different seasons over one weekend. No longer will you have to sleep in a tiny house made of nylon. And we’re totally gutted. Festival season is an excuse to become as close to feral as it’s possible to be without Ben Fogle making a documentary about you. During festival season you are free to become the shower-dodging free spirit you always knew you were. Behaviour which would usually get you disowned by your mates – such as wearing glitter, singing Queen songs on an acoustic guitar at 3am, and actively enjoying electro-swing – are positively encouraged.
Bestival – which takes place this weekend – is the last big blowout event of the year, and it’ll then be another eight months at least until we’re allowed to run wild in the fields, carparks and stately home back gardens of the UK again. I’m already out of the game though, bowing out last weekend at the ever delightful End Of The Road in Dorset, capping off a great summer with a spiritual headline set from Father John Misty, the eating of many, many pies, dancing to indie disco classics on a light-up ‘Saturday Night Fever’ dancefloor next to a giant wooden boat, a 1am session playing 1970s soft rock in a wooden recording studio the size of a phonebox, some karaoke in a bathtub and a couple of pints of wine. Way too much fun, in other words.
Add to that one of the best Glastonburys in years, some fabulous frolicking at Field Day, the day I managed to see Queens of the Stone Age at both Reading and Leeds Festivals in the same day and Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks letting me indulge my drivetime Americana fantasies at British Summer Time in Hyde Park and you can see why I’m about enter autumn in a state of bliss – but also extreme knackeredness. It is then with tired hands and a heavy heart that I pack away my wet wipes for yet another year – but you better believe that I’m already working out what festivals I’ll be rampaging through in 2018. Now here’s hoping I don’t forget where I’ve hidden the glitter…