I had sex in a tent once.
Then I stowed the tent away in my Honda Accord and went home.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 17:11, 1 reply)

Call from work
"Can you turn your stereo down?"

"NO!!!"

"Why not? Have you been to see the doctors yet? We're just worried about you and want to know if you'll be ok for work tomorrow. Will you turn that music down so I can hear myself think!?!"

"NO!!! ERM... SORRY!!! DON'T THINK I'LL BE WELL ENOUGH TOMORROW EITHER!!! ERM... SORRY!!! BYE!!!"

-click-

That was a fucked up conversation. My ex boss must've thought I had one hell of a muthering bastard of a stereo on steroids in my flat, though - I didn't have the heart or the balls to explain I'd actually skived off work as I'd received a last minute offer to go to Download, and I was, in point of fact, stood infront of the main stage listening to Slayer break the fucking sound barrier.

I didn't fancy turning round to Dave Lombardo et al and asking them to keep the noise down for a few minutes...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 17:02, 2 replies)

Glastonbury, 1995
*cue wavy lines*

I bought a ticket (or rather my parents did, only cost £50 back in the day) and paid my proper rail fare like a good little boy, although most of my mates bunked both the fare and the fence.

My friend sprained his ankle jumping the aformentioned fence and we had to cart him around in a shopping trolley for the rest of the weekend. We then proceeded to do acid for the first time and smoke shit hash, wander around the site in a LSD-induced haze looking for some relatives of a friend who were supposed to be in various different magical locations..

Then a load of stuff got robbed from my tent and I had to bunk the fare home, somehow managed to walk straight through the main entrance of Glastonbury train station and none of the ticket inspectors stopped me! Me and 2 fellow fare-dodgers then had to hide in the train toilets while the inspectors went past, holding the door shut so the 'engaged' sign wouldn't light up.

I finally arrived home looking like I'd been dragged backwards through a hedge, the shower I had was like mana from heaven. Good clean youthful fun I suppose, but dear god, NEVER AGAIN.

The bands weren't bad either.
( Finite "Aardvark sorted out my shit!" on, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 16:51, Reply)

The best EVER
It was quite possibly the first ever WOMAD in 1982 but it could have been the following year.

I'd never been to a festival before but my eventually-to-be-ex-husband-but-at-that-point-boyfriend was a bit of a muso and dragged me, willingly, along. It was all very nice and we did the usual things but one thing sticks in my mind as a highlight, not just of the festival, but probably the year.

At that time I'd never heard of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan [and I can tell by the looks of bemusement on most of your faces that some of you still haven't] but the man was, quite simply, the voicepiece of God. Sadly he's no longer with us, but his music lives on. For those that don't know, he was the king of Qawwali {see: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qawwali} the mystic music of the Sufis. The group was about ten strong and consisted of a few solo singers, backing singers/clappers, harmonium players and a tabla player, all sat cross-legged on the stage with Nusrat in the centre, magnificent as a Buddha, a big, fat man with a voice bigger than his belly.

We'd both been smoking some very fine Nepalese black all day and were feeling more than mellow, in fact we were half inclined to nip back to the tent but Ben really wanted to see this, so we found a nice spot at the back of the tent and settled down. The music was incredible - each piece would start slowly, voices and harmonium slowly weaving up and down a scale for a few minutes until Nusrat launched into the first chorus. Hand-claps would start and each line would be repeated by the backing singers, the momentum building, the tabla throbbing, the harmoniums grinding, the voices wailing and flying, the steady clapping of the backing chorus. We were both transfixed and transported. After the first number ended the applause was immense and we settled down for the next number, I sat in front of Ben and he put his arms around me and we slowly rocked along with the music. As the next song built, he gently started rubbing my tits through the thin material of my floaty dress and I could feel his hard-on grow against my spine.

At the end of the second song I manoevered myself next to Ben and discreetly got out of my knickers before kneeling down over Ben's outstretched legs with my back to him again. I spread my dress so that it covered his lap and he undid his jeans and slid his pants down. This time, as the music slowly built, I gently rocked up and down on my knees until he was able to slide smoothly inside me. I can't adequately describe the feeling as for the whole of the next song, which was at least 15 minutes, I ever so gently rocked up and down on Ben's hard cock while my eyes and ears were fixed on the group of musicians and singers on the stage. The music built and built, hippies danced and swayed, the voices soared and swooped and Ben's hand slowly reached around, under my dress, over my thigh, found my clit and began to rub in time to the beat. I'm not a religious person, but that night I definitely had a religious experience and seriously considered becoming a full-time Sufi. I came like a train but Ben had to wait until the middle of the next song and my second mind-blowing orgasm before he shot a load so long and hard that it almost came out of the top of my head.

[If you're interested I it was 'Dam hama dam ali ali' that was the big one. We tried replicating the experience at home but it was never quite the same. Good fun trying though.]
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 16:21, 6 replies)

"GA--ZE--BO"
Leeds 2008

Middle of the night, the skyline orange with the glow of the many toxic fires that scattered the camp sites.

One of the more hilarious/surreal sights are floating gazebo making their way over tents and ever closer to their demise.

As it gets closer the surrounding people all start chanting "GA-ZE-BO" as the sacrifice is thrown in.


I was working for leeds fest last year doing fire tower duties on yellow fun fair during the day time. Most days was alright, mainly fetching supplies of water from the yellow camp site (Walking up and down that massive hill with massive bottle of water ever day, a few times a day)


The last monday morning was some of the most intense adrenaline fueled action i have ever had, and loved it.

You're running around with as many bottle of water/piss/fizzy pop you can carry/find and putting out any toxic fires you can. Some of these fires you encounter are meters in length, full of burning plastic and tents. But the most dangerous part is that the fire can contain gas canisters. You approach these fires as they're blowing up in your face, trying to put it out, you open up a tent on fire to see that someone has filled it with gas canisters so you have to pull it all apart before it explodes in your face. The closest i was to being harmed was a gas canister going off from a fire i was putting out that shot above my head and hit a small tree behind.

The main advantages of working for a company is that you get your ticket free (with a deposit), you get paid for the 12 hour shifts a day you do, separate camping areas away from the carnage and food tokens for meals.

This year i'm gonna do volunteering at Glastonbury, non paid but you only get 6 hour shifts for four days (6am to 12noon, 12noon to 6pm mixed shifts).
( schizophrenic_sheep, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 16:13, 4 replies)

Radio 1
Back in the Olden Days of Yore^TM, the Evening Session was good. (You remember those days?) One evening my ears pricked up: they'd been running a competition in which the prize was a trip to the Reading Festival (when it was good, too) on the Radio 1 bus, with all-areas passes and the whole works, for the winner and a friend.

The winner was about to be announced.
It was N.
I was at school with N; she'd been in my A-level French group and had been going out with my friend B, whom I've had cause to mention on these pages several times before. Even by this point, a year or two into our respective university careers, they were still an item in their own slightly weird and obsessional way. Naturally, N decided that she'd take B with her.

So off they went, and back they came, and, naturally, I wanted to know what had happened. Which bands'd they seen? To whom had they spoken? What had they blagged?

"Um, it wasn't quite like that," said B, who was rather familiar with all kinds of pills and powders. "We didn't really see all that much. We just kind of sat around the campfire for a lot of the time."

He sensed my incredulity and began to explain.
"Well, you see, [INSERT FAMOUS RADIO DJ's NAME HERE] had the biggest bag of the most amazingly high quality coke I've ever seen. So we basically spent the weekend snorting that. He's a really nice guy."


No. Before you ask, it wasn't Westwood.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 16:08, 2 replies)

Antifestival
I attended an event in July of 2006 that would make most b3tan's blood turn to powder in horror.

It should have been ace. All the right boxes were ticked: Knebworth. The Who. Hottest day of the year. Best of all, it was not only free but I was being paid to go.

It was not ace.

This was no festival. It was a corporate trade show for the hedge fund industry, organised as a chance for everyone involved to come together, sell eachother their services and forge high-value-add synergistic relationships in a relaxed atmosphere of friendly co-opetition. The twist was the festival theme, the highlight being The Who playing later in the evening.

The day started well enough. Hundreds of monumentally overpaid hedge fund managers parked their Aston Martins on the lawn. Bankers and brokers left their Ferraris alongside. I, mere pond scum of a junior software vendor monkey, carefully attached crook-lock on my girlfriend's 15 year old Fiesta. We set up our company tent as the sun started to get hot and amused ourselves trying to flirt with the models in sundresses that the bigger companies had hired.

As the day wore on a growing sense of just what we were involved in was nagging at me. My inner 18 year old was in tears. Everything about the event makes me cringe. The refreshment stand in the field called the "Nine Bar". The Bentley dealer who'd turned up to raffle off a couple of cars for £1,000 a ticket. The old VW campers painted up in what appeared to be psychadelic patterns but on closer inspection turned out to be highly stylised logos of major banks. I was in danger of drowning in pure wank. I was getting sunburned at an event called, I can barely write this now, HedgeStock.

I did my job manning our stand. When 5pm rolled on I broke out the beers and got ready to watch The Who with my fortunately very cool colleagues. They played a brilliant, brilliant set that lasted well over two hours. It was loud, tight, we were pissed and right at the front, really getting into it and just loving watching an incredible band at a beautiful venue outside on a summer's evening. You can't beat it. Yet, when I turned around to take in the atmosphere, I was bought thudding back to earth. Here was a crowd of about a thousand people, with maybe twenty of us singing along and dancing like loons at the front. Everyone else, to a man, was either on the phone or emailing on their Blackberries. I saw one chap in a polo shirt and pressed chinos with a sunhat (bank logo'ed, of course) with his arms folded and a severe expression on his face, just standing there - during Baba O'Reilly!

Roger Daltrey summed it up perfectly about three songs in. Clearly underwhelmed by what must have been the worst crowd he has ever played in front of in his entire career - a crowd so bad it made the Jazz Oddessey audience look like whizzed up moshpit nutters - he shook his head sadly and said into the microphone in a bemused voice, "Who the fuck are you?"
( Scrumper, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:57, 6 replies)

Essential festival, Bristol, Rock day.
Fucking aresholes
(teebie jeebie, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:53, Reply)

LSD - seems like a good idea at the time...
Not me (already mad enough without the liberal ingestion of hallucinagens) but a good friend came back from Glasto, an event that he was very much looking forward to, having spent vast amounts of money on both tickets and camping paraphinalia.

"So" says I "How was Glastonbury?"

"well, um. Good. Pretty good."

"So who did you see?"

"um, well..."

It transpired that he, along with his two camping buddies, had managed to get hold of some LSD just after arriving at Glasto and, being quite big fans of illegal substances, all sampled a large quantity, which they washed down with some lovely cider.

They then proceeded to spend the evening, instead of going into the festival itself, listening to the radio. When it wasn't tuned in. And also walking round and round a large tree, feeling for secret messages in the bark.

Money not so well spent.
( hanabanana, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:47, 1 reply)

stoneage conditions
prevent me from attending festivals as well as :

1) prefering drugs to booze and subsequently,
2) requiring a shower and clean clothes every 24hrs minimum, and then
3) liking a nice comfy place to rest/collapse

My mate however has been to several and recounts the only festival story that sticks in my mind -

while partaking in the horrific act of venturing inside a portaloo, he's presented with a steamy mountain of Dantean proportions, as he's only after a piss this seems temporarily bearable and while using one hand to steady himself sets about draining his tank. At this point a fat poofly takes off from the back of the mountain and starts buzzing around the cell. Fearing the kiss of the poofly, he uses the only weapon available since both hands are occupied and 'ghostbusters' style tries to knock out the fly with the stream of piss, this results in him pissing over most of the inside of the cell and still failing to get the fly. With the draining over he escapes to freedom before the poofly can slime him, a lucky escape.

I doubt that the cell was much worse off after the hosing down than before, the horror, the horror. Give me a long night in a club any time.
(amazinglasercow now sporting terawatt mining lasers, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:42, 4 replies)

Never have I ever...
Stayed with a girlfriend, whom I really couldn't stand, for free festival tickets...





*Drinks*
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:20, 7 replies)

Festival Food
Sat on the floor, dusk fast approaching, thinking I'm the King of Spain on account of having far too much sun and Tuborg during the previous twelve hours or so. I'm starving and so's my mate Sean. But the food stalls are either closed, closing, or out of grub. Shit!

Resigned to being hungry, I find a nice quiet spot that isnt soaked in piss and sit down. I quaff my pint, being extra careful not to crack the cheap plastic and cover my cock in lukewarm beer.

Sean fucks off for a bit and comes back with a big plate of chicken noodles with sweetcorn. He explains he's already eaten half and that the rest is for me. Dancing about like a twat under some weird voodoo curse makes you hungry as hell, so I quickly start wolfing the food down.

Then something occurs to me. We tried the noodle stall about half an hour ago and it was very definately shut. "Err, Sean - where the fuck did you buy this?" I ask.

Sean looks a bit confused. "I didn't buy it..."

I keep eating. I am officially more hungry than an anorexic Ethiopian. Then Sean adds: "I found it.... Over there...." and he points.

I follow his finger to an overflowing dustbin full of various stinky crap and buzzing with flies. "Don't worry, though," Sean says. "It was right on top.... I scraped off all the non-edible stuff..."


Cunt...

EDIT: Still ate it though. Tasted good, it just contained weird little crunchy bits that exploded when you bit into them. Thinking about it, they were probably teeny-tiny maggots.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:08, 4 replies)

World's Slowest Mugging
A dry Glastonbury, some point in the mid 90's.

A couple of years after graduating my group of friends finally had the money to do festivals with a small degree of comfort, before falling into the money pits of property ownership.

We had a nice little camp site setup on the Thursday, tents in a circle with an awning and tarpaulin in the middle, for some where to sit out of the sun or rain.

I woke up early, and wandered off to get a coffee, returning to find my mate Rod skinning up. Result, the sun is shining, I'm not in the fucking office, and I'm in the middle of a field sharing a joint with a friend. Life is pretty good.

At this point my morning took a turn for the slightly odd.

A couple of young blokes wander up, dressed as if about to enter a 'Thieving Scally of the Year' competition - crap trackie bottoms, expensive trainers, and baseball caps not being the fashion of choice for indie kids at the time.

"Oi - what are you doing on our groundsheet?" they asked, revealing themselves to be denizens of that legendary citadel of moral rectitude, Liverpool.

Rod and I calmly suggested they were mistaken, given we owned it, and engaged in some light hearted banter.

One of the scousers got bored and wandered off, at which point we realised there were a good dozen of them within a hundred yards. The other northern monkey had taken offense to my having been sat down.

"Get Up"

"What?"

"Get up so you can fight me!"

"Nah, I don't want to fight you" - this guy was 5'6", I'm 6'2". I have no interest in getting in a fight with anyone.

"Get up or I'll kick you up" - I stand up, and then sit down again. Rod and me are pretty damn calm, but I think it was down to the couple of spliffs we'd had by that point rather than natural cool. The lack of reaction isn't helping our case.

"Come on, I want to fight you" - the bad scouse stereotype then pulls a knife.

"I don't need this knife to take you" - he throws the knife away. At this point I'm considering taking him up on his offer, I have six mates and their partners in the surrounding tents, but there are still a dozen scousers nearby, and it would be a really bad idea.

"Nah mate, fancy a smoke instead?"

This continued for a while, until he finally twigged I would not fight, so he changed his approach.

"Got any money, give it to me and I'll go away" - great, we now have the world's slowest mugging.

"We don't have any money, sure you don't fancy a smoke?"

"You must have, give it to me and I'll go"

At this point Rod chips in, "Here's a fiver", which is grabbed with haste.

Instead of departing immediately, our guest gives us both a hug, apologies for his behaviour, and claims he'd taken a bad 'E', and then disappears.

So I feel I have empirical evidence for using the term "Thieving Scouse Bastard" as this is the only time I've been mugged.
(Scooby Don't, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 15:05, 3 replies)

A big, open apology
To the person who harangued me for shouting something, no doubt hilarious, about peadophilia whilst hammered on cheap gin at Reading '08.

I'm even more sorry for trying to dig myself out of what was no doubt a horrible joke about such a touchy subject.

The thing I'm most sorry for though is, after realising my wrongdoing, relieving myself all over your wellies and chasing you down the path screaming obscenities and covering myself in piss and gin.

I can understand this was probably quite tramatic and, admittedly, not the best course of action.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 14:57, Reply)

D R U G S A C C I D E N T
It will teach me to steal drugs... bit pissed already and decided to nick a nice big line of a mates coke at reading... turns out... “wow shit this burns... argh that tastes super-vile.. its arrgh.. its not coke” (start having pulp fiction visions, start having a have I done heroin? panic) turns out it was Ketamine…

Cue being “that wasted guy” for a few hours..

Horrid horid drug… not again.
(jordanchaos isn’t just any PeaRoast, this is a M&S PeaRoast, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 14:38, 7 replies)

1988, Stonehenge, camped on Bill Oddie's land I believe
lots of the usual stories about massive over indulgence of acid etc

will cut a long story short with one anecdote

we'd lost a member of our party at some point the previous day. That night me and some friends went on a bit of a wandering acid/hash bender and through the night the group gradually whittled down to two of us. We were walking through some grass and bushes around 5am and followed a trail of empty EKU 28 bottles which were scattered along the side of a path through the grass. At the end of it we found a group of people who looked as though they'd stepped out of the 18th century, peasant style clothing, sitting around a bush playing mandolins etc. Inside the bush, holding onto the trunk for dear life we found our missing friend
(albinomeatpod, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 14:21, Reply)

Glade 2005
Went to get a Pie from the Pie stall. They had run out of Pies. So they gave me a free Pie T-shirt instead.
( BindiBaji, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 14:17, 9 replies)

I dislocated my knee walking to the campsite for Reading 2005
I didn't want to miss a thing so I was carried by my dear friends Peasy and Dan to the first aid tent. They wanted to take me to the hospital as my knee was the size of a water melon. I demanded crutches and spent the whole weekend being carried and using the crutches instead. I even got a shag on the last night. On my return to Cornwall I went to hospital in agony to be told to piss off home and take some painkillers as I should have come in when it happened so no sympathy you've lasted this long. I took weeks before I could walk properly again but it was worth it.
( Peej, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:59, Reply)

November 3rd, 1991 Australian Grand Prix, Adelaide
Trying to impress young lady

Gold Pass tickets, Brabham straight $260.00
Double spa room, Hyatt Regency, Adelaide $180.00
Lots of overpriced drinks $100.00

Race being stopped after 16 of 81 laps due to torrential rain that turned everything into a swamp, her saying "well at least we can stay for the after race concert!", waiting 6 hours in the pissing rain and mud to see Paul Fucking Simon!

Priceless
(wallynothere rnot without protection, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:44, 2 replies)

Lets face it
Festivals are what middle class people do to pretend to be interesting. "Oh, look at me - I've just spent a hundred pounds on a festival ticket! Step away from the tapas, wine, avacado and goats cheese and come and give me praise! To show how much of an individual I am I'm going to spend the equivalent money that will keep a family on the breadline alive for a month to go and stand round with thousands and thousands of other individuals. We can talk about where we're going ski-ing next season and how the country would be much better if we just got rid of poor people."
(Fozzy Wozzy, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:43, 13 replies)

Spannered at Punk Festival
A bunch of us went to Glasgow for a one day punk festival. The queue for the Barrowlands was a sight to behold. Hundreds of punks lined up, already gurning slightly after the preparatory whites, thick clouds of ganja smoke filling the air along with empty bottles and cans sketching rudimentary parabolas through the fug. And this was around 10 in the morning in the pissing rain.

Once inside we sank many a pint, smoked many a spliff and consumed a few disco biscuits in an attempt to reach complete inebriation.

I was amused greatly by;

Tom being caught, cross-legged in the middle of the dancefloor, crumbling the last of his hash into an enormous spliff. The security guard insulted him, snatched the tiny block of hash from his hand and strode off, leaving the unrolled, and already packed, spliff untouched - Ta fella

and, the end of the night when I was waiting for the mighty Lagwagon to take the stage. I was oscillating quite badly by this point and probably chewing my face in a hideous gurnsome manner. I was getting rather impatient as I'd been waiting for (what felt like) a long time for their appearance. Slowly the general background noise began to filter through my drug addled brain and, lo and behold, it kind of sounds like Lagwagon. It was at this point I realised that, like a mong, I'd been standing facing the opposite direction to the rest of the crowd and had missed the first 10 minutes of Lagwagon's set as they rocked the fuck out roughly 3 meters behind me.


Good times!
(Rotimer was micturating windward at, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:40, Reply)

Glasto 05
Met a guy in the stone circle. We were smoking cannabingle-bongles, he was selling NOS balloons from a portable canister setup, 3 for a fiver (natch).

Whilst filling up our lovely cinnamoney balloony goodness, he extolled the virtues of the word ‘slaptastic’ and his campaign to have it included in the Oxford English Dictionary.

Only in the stone circle.
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:37, Reply)

More a suggestion than an answer
Oi Oi Rob/Scary/other lovely b3ta mods...

why don't we have a b3ta festival...

...kitties, CDCs and music for everyone?

Twicey...
(twiceydrinker hmmm is it pint time?, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:35, 9 replies)

Beautiful Days 2007...
...and it fucked it down the whole weekend. Come Sunday night, the entire site was knee-deep in claggy, slidey mud. The view from the top of the main stage field looked like a zombie movie filmed in a cesspit, as a few thousand pissed, stoned and bedraggled festy-goers schlopped their way round the site.

It was aces though. I'm pretty sure everyone had a good time. Well, except for the girl I spotted late on Sunday evening.

The Levellers were closing the festival, in traditional style. Halfway through their set the umpty-three pints of Suicider I'd ingested throughout the day were clamouring for some space of their own, so off I slid to the bogs. In the light of strobes and fireworks, I noticed a small crowd gathered round one of the shitboxes. So, naturally, I wanted to get myself a better look. I mean, it could have been anything.

In the dim glow, I could make out the slumped figure of a girl, her friends gathered round attempting to rouse her. A horrified-looking paramedic looked on, hurriedly snapping on an industrial grade pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.

Poor poorly girl, I thought, as I skipped off to the other end of the queue to wait patiently for a slash. I wonder if they'll have to hose her off or something?

Bearing in mind the cumulative effect of rain, mud, beer and festival food, I'm pretty sure that kneeling in one of the turdis cubicles with head gently resting on the mounded contents of the pot wouldn't have been top of her 'preferred places to be' list.

Still. At least it wasn't me.
(surlygirl spanked your monkey on, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:33, 2 replies)

Download '07
After stumbling around the campsite with a half drunk bottle of vodka I was told that I couldn't take my glass bottle any further, so I downed the rest. Cue memory loss.

Next morning I was awoken by a banging headache and rob and jonjay shouting "poppers-o-clock!" at me. They had emptied a bottle of poppers onto a clump of tissue and stuck it under my sleeping face, what made it slightly worse is that I was sleeping in a £15 Argos Canvas Coffin(tm) one man tent, which holds around 2 minutes of oxygen once you zip it up.

So I chomped a few Es, smoked a few spliffs, ate a few cereal bars and went to watch: www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tm5DVHL7rw

*edit

I also went for a turd the morning after the vodka and fell asleep on the shitter for an hour.
(mrmonkfish yolo420weedwizard, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:26, Reply)

Sziget festival is awesome
I went for the first time in 2005 aged 17 with my best mate (also went 2006 and 2008). This was our first real trip to somewhere where we would be completely free.

Got there on "day 0" (where there is only ever one opening act) and set up our tent next to some friendly german people. As you can imagine, we got ratted. Lots of really good music from the continent: Ska-p, louise attack, Matmatah, the hives, dEUS... Not many english acts, although Radiohead and The Prodigy came too. Good Charlotte were pathetic but fun to take the piss out of.

We mostly got really, really drunk and didn't sleep, at shit food and got a sunburn. After the festival ended, we went to a family friend and slept for about 20 hours straight. A week of festival is pretty hard on you, and we were smoking about two packs a day. What I lvoe about the festival so much is meeting strangers at a concert or just chilling out in the night, singing with them, and then never meeting again (or, as happened once when they do see you and say hello, not even remembering who they are or ever meeting them).
Sadly, it's kinda gotten invaded by the French now. They're just everywhere and many act like complete twats.

I'll always remember vomiting and pissing into a bush at the same time, and the girl who ran into the forest to have a piss, fell over and realised she wasn't the only one who hadn't been able to wait for a space to open in the portaloo... Poor thing!
( morrybyte made a subtle namechange at, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:23, 1 reply)

Not mine, but I was there man
Went to Reading a few years back with a friend, lets call him M. Drinking, smoking, eating shit food etc etc good times. We'd been trying to avoid using the on-site bogs as best we could, but come the turd day (snigger) M just couldn't hold it anymore for fear of internal injury.

Off he waddled towards the nearest cess pit and a few minutes later he returned doubled up with laughter, which I initially put down to post crap euphoria. Turns out he'd entered a bog, with curiously no queue, only to find exactly what you'd expect.

Feacies flung frivolously throughout, with a steaming pile of brown bum bananas reaching a good half foot up from the rim of the pit. Obviously people had been standing on the plastic sidey bits and hovering before cascading crap upon the pooey peak.

Unfortunately for someone their hovering skills were not up to the challenge and there was a perfectly formed bum print on top of the tower of turd. M just couldn't go, the risks were too high
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:21, Reply)

Leeds again
Wrote 'I LOVE READING' on the back of my friends t-shirt when he was sleeping.

He went to the toilet.

Came back and had been punched because some guy saw his t-shirt and thought he 'LOVED READING'... as in books.

Funny old world eh.
(i should have joined myspace, Fri 5 Jun 2009, 13:18, 1 reply)