missing dust jacket

*Sigh* So, Glastonbury’s over for another year and that familiar festival comedown is aching gently in my muddy little heart.

I still find it strange that I love festivals, let alone Glastonbury. I am not a happy camper: I like cleanliness, hair straighteners, armchairs, plumbing. But there’s something about the place; its silliness, randomness, camaderie; the lack of vanity, the filth, the friendliness and above all, the quality and variety of live music and entertainment that makes Glastonbury addictive.

In the same way that some couples may favour a little Parisian hotel or a gorgeous Tuscany view, minifig and I have built our relationship on seven Glastonburys to date, pushing our boundaries of patience and intimacy, as well as sharing some cheesily beautiful experiences together. As well as being a dirty fantasy playground, Glastonbury can also be one of the most romantic temporary cites on earth.

It’s a wonderful place to exploit the late sunset and early sunrise and stay up all night raving with friends and strangers. There are few pleasures simpler than taking your friends to meet the dragon on their first Glastonbury, or just sitting with a plastic bottle filled with cheap red wine in the Stone Circle as the sun sets on the Thursday night, giddy with anticipation.

Okay, it’s a bitch waking up desperate for a pee in the middle of the night and having to tug on wellies and face a campsite full of wasted teenagers to use a stinky long-drop. Standing up for six hours straight and ploughing through calf-high mud also gets old rather fast too. Coping with poor sound systems, indifferent crowds, aching joints, dirt, tummy upset and sleep deprivation is not something I’d generally pay for. But despite the icky discomfort and exhaustion, there’s nothing quite like the buzz you get, waking up to hear the Glastonbury dawn chorus of tents being unzipped and lighters clicking in the early-morning drizzle on that first beautiful Friday.

It’s glorious.