Reading James Delingpole’s fine piece about ‘the best music festival in the universe’ brought it all flooding back. Twenty years ago, buoyed by rave reviews such as James’s, I headed for Glastonbury full of starry-eyed hope and excitement. What followed were three days of unremitting misery, memories of which haunt me to this day. Torrential rain, swamp-like conditions, a pathetically inadequate tent, perpetually damp clothes, greasy burgers of dubious provenance, some ‘colourful’, frankly scary characters and unspeakable loos all conspired to make it an experience I vowed never to repeat. Even watching the Cure against a backdrop of forked lighting-scarred skies failed to numb the pain.
Fast-forward to 2006, when I finally caved in and agreed to attend the Green Man festival, then in its fourth year. What a difference two decades makes: not a dog on a string or a fire made of plastic cider bottles in sight.
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