Well what can I say about this year’s glasto, it started with me getting my Tipi nicked and went down hill from there, and I missed The Specials. In fact I missed pretty much everything. I don’t think I have the requisite fortitude for that festival anymore. It’s like Ong Thanh meets Blackpool during a dysentery pandemic. (”Hey maaan, you weren’t there Maaaan”)

Four quid for a tepid brew with a dead wasp in it, pfft. Maybe I’m just getting old.

If it wasn’t for Apples and Snakes very own Pete Hunter lending me a spare tent I’d have had to fashion a shelter out of spent glow sticks and discarded K wraps. Cheers Pete, you’re a gent.

The first thing I encountered as I entered the main site was a bar selling over priced, urophagic lager to a bunch of sludge sodden wreck-heads who probably thought ANC was a clothes shop for dyslexics. It was a massive red, gold and green marquee hilariously named the Nelson Mandela bar. Did someone really think that this would be a fitting accolade? Maybe it’s just me, but taking the name of one of greatest political icons of the last century and using it to extort money out of crapulent punters in a cynical commercial enterprise seems somewhat incongruent with the festival’s original ethos?