![]() I lined up the clever Peebols neatly by the tent flap door as I went, so all I had to worry about was quietly disposing of them in the morning. I’d drunk so much water that night I managed to fill not one, but three bags (they hold a litre of liquid each). Instead I’d discreetly take a plastic bag of these magic, urine-soaking crystals, relieve my bladder in the privacy of my own tent, and be able to snap it shut safely afterwards, without negotiating any revellers or mud. Instead of fumbling for flip flops and an arse-covering T shirt to make the disgusting loo trek for the inevitable wees (and then not get back to sleep), I had a plan. I thought I was being so well prepared, so hygienic and smug when I ordered my ‘Peebol bags’ from Amazon ahead of the festival. ‘I spent the rest of the festival smelling of my own wee’ And I understand that this is more of a reflection of my jaded, joyless, privileged soul than a true horror story. We witnessed many moments of brilliance, including a massively sleep deprived friend (and grown man) uncontrollably weeping during Nick Cave. We limped up the M4, the stench of soggy sleeping bags, sorrow and shame heavy in our juddering, smoking hatchback.ĭon’t get me wrong. Before joining the hours-long line of traffic, we hit a bollard (still no blame attached if anyone involved is reading this) crippling my girlfriend’s car. But our final escape was given a cruel twist. The sun now baking, we emptied the water out of our shoes and made it to the car. Skip a few scenes, lots of walking, a couple of major disagreements about directions, and a few drinks, and we awoke in our collapsing tent, flooded – obviously –- and possessions floating in three inches of dark brown Glasto run-off. ![]() After getting unceremoniously kicked out of the dressing room (unless you’re The Killers, Glastonbury backstage loses a lot of its famous chill when bands are taking up valuable seating space) we set off for ‘artists camping’, while everyone else in the band made the sensible decision to not sleep in a plastic bag, fleeing the festival after a day of watching bands and debauchery. My girlfriend at the time, my brother and I had decided to spend a couple of days at the festival to make the most of the free ticket. The experience – the grand fulfilment of a catalogue of teenage dreams – has somehow been eclipsed in my memory by what came next. In a previous life, I was lucky enough to play on the Other Stage in 2009 as part of my band Art Brut. Jasper Fulcher, Head of Features Publishing ‘We awoke to find our possessions floating in three inches of dark brown water’
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