The journey, in Gobi Desert sun, across the car park, via press accreditation alley, through the Wicket Gate, onsite, past Darble Field, down to the campsite, mutates my physical being. Instead, we load the Cosco to chest height, ratcheted and bungeed tight.īeing the chunkiest lunk, it’s assigned my job to push it. The industrial Cosco Foldable Hand Truck takes up half the car, but we’re long done with those useless flimsy packdown family festival trolleys. Somehow it doesn’t matter and we’re parked up in Hospitality beside acres of solar panels and silage tanks. “Is the Bronze Gate the same as the Orange Gate?” I ask.īut I only find that out after the Festival. “It looks bronze to me,” says Finetime, “Or maybe brown.” “It’s this way,” says Finetime, looking at roadside signage. Rule No.1: Always travel to festivals as if you’re going through customs (Rule No.2 being “Never turn back to repack supplies if you see a Police dog at a festival entrance”). I wanted to open the Texas BBQ Pringles but then remembered the wraps of Quivver Fizz stashed in there, down amongst the Pringle layers, top re-glued, cap back on. We’re all eating small packets of Red Leicester Mini Cheddars. I’ve an Aspall Draft Cyder on the go (Aspall Premier Cru’s a bit pokey for first swiggings). Don’s crammed in the sole back seat, cocooned by tents, camping chairs, duvets, rucksacks, sleeping bags and the rest. Grab or lose.įinetime’s sucking a cold Peroni at the wheel, shades on, red band round his hair. City bigger than the actual urban metropolis of Aberdeen. Sun on red’n’blue candy-striped marquees, multitudes of white tipis, lines and lines of parked cars glinting, goes on forever against the valleyed meadows. Via a gap in the bushes, the 53-year-old Festival bursts into view. “I get up around seven, get outta bed around nine, and I don’t worry about nothin’, no, ‘cause worrying’s a waste of time.” Forced onto the pavement by some dead-eyed white van skunter. Monday I borrowed the car and dinged it collecting dosh in Brighton. Except, despite the blazing heat, a great dent in the front passenger door means I can’t wind down my window. Don Carlton and I singing “Mr Brownstone” to the verges and trees from the windows of Finetime’s red Nissan Qashqai. We’re into the leafy lanes, bustin’ the pastoral with GN’R. Maybe I have Long Glastonbury? No time for mewling. Where my brain once resided a blistered, reddened, atavist lizard id sits curled in upon itself, pulling levers. My inner head has been scooped out like a cantaloupe. My carcass has been ridden over by Immortan Joe’s entire fleet of vehicles from Mad Max: Fury Road.
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