Posted by Bill on May 20th, 2007
It’s that time of year again, when the aroma of fresh donuts merges with generator diesel, when incense, Lynx and human ordure create an hallucinogenic triumvirate of sensaround magnificence. It’s time to stumble across a ploughed field with a paper cup of warm lager and a cold burrito, lose your phone, squint at the stage and say to someone, ‘Who’s on now?’ And it is fantastic..I will personally never forget the indefatigable spirit of one man who sat Buddha-like on his tent groundsheet as it was slowly borne away on a river of liquid mud, his can of Tennents held aloft in defiance.
Some Feeble Soles choose not to go to Festivalles for fear of Scurvie, or the Dredded Pox.. whiche they are more likelie to contracte in the Stinkinge Metropolitan squalor of Londone. Although the Facilityes are more plentifulle admytedly.