I'd spent the entirety of the six days away praying for a shower. Not so much a rain shower, although we did manage one of those, but a shower to actually wash away all of the terrible things that had stained onto my skin.'It's not really a festival if you haven't peed, a bit, on yourself,' my pal said, emerging from the She-Wee tent, her brow well and truly furrowed as she shook her leg like a pissed-off male dog. As it turns out, she wasn't entirely wrong.
As the weekend went on and what once looked like a well preened (and cleaned crowd) had deteriorated into the smell-ridden descendants of Worzel Gummidge, we started to mock and detest those who still had traces of normality about them. Those without a greasy hair bun or mud splatters about their thighs or a general look of distain about their dirty faces. I traipsed back across London during rush hour, in what felt like million degree weather with all of the above; the grease, the mud, the distain. Strangely enough, I wasn't the worst smelling person on the tube. (Congrats London commuters.)
Finally making it home (and more importantly, the sofa) I collapsed and refused to take the shower I had been dreaming of (and frankly, needed) for the past week. I wasn't ready to give up the smell and feel of such an incredible weekend.
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My first weekend highlight comes in the form of two incredible ladies; Just a Couple of Mums. We first caught sight and sound of them on the Thursday. It was frustratingly warm and the group had travelled to what felt like the ends of the earth for a scrap of suncream although we were already at lobster status. Hot, bothered and without alcohol things were going south. Then it happened. Voices, singing from the shadows. The instantly recognisable synth of The Human League being chanted in the distance. We wandered along the dirt pathway into the trees to find a tree house bar absolutely filled to the brim with drunkards at one in the afternoon. Moods were instantly lifted. Any chance of punching the next person to ask to stop for the toilet was gone. Thank you Just a Couple of Mums for stopping what could have been the first Glastonbury heat murder. We pulled out any warm cans of cider we could be bothered to carry, sang wildly, and snap chatted to prove to everyone else that we knew how to have a good time. The weekend had officially started.
After watching Florence do her thing (a highlight in its own right) we stumbled over to the toilets in the dark, slipping down muddy slopes as we did. Planning where we would end up for the rest of the night we heard people singing to Men At Work from behind a line of trees. I complained about trying to get across the ditch, something I would complain about sober but found increasingly difficult drunk and in wellies. My friend Sasha held my hand and pulled me through, entering us back into the world of Just a Couple of Mums. We danced and belted out the best of the 80s, Motown hits and disco classics and discussed how much our parents would be loving this. After a few drunken messages sent to said parents, we considered that the festival with them might not be that fab. (If you think I complain, you should meet my mother.) We reminisced over Abba and peed ourselves laughing at pill-heads being dumb; how all Friday nights should be.
My second weekend highlight comes in the form of something you would never expect to hear at a festival; cheap drinks. What? Alcoholic beverages at a reasonable price at a festival? Unheard of! This discovery came pre-Florence and post-steak-sandwich-and-churros. Deciding it was time to find some mixer for our spirit we stumbled around the Park area and found the Bimble Inn. Our spirits were lifted at the price of spirits and frozen cocktails and prosecco- all things that I love. £3.50 for a glass of bubbly is the most rare, even in day to day life, so the thought of satisfying my Essex needs in a field miles and miles from home made for an excellent spend. Come with a strawberry and everything. Classy lady, me.
You may have noticed that my highlights so far distinctly lacks any of the weekend musical acts and musical highlights there were plenty. Laughing at Kanye being a dick, laughing at Father John Misty being a dick, laughing at people being dicks. We laughed a lot and we rapped a lot too. We also danced in the rain to keep warm. That makes for my best weekend highlight.
It bloody well hammered it down about halfway through Saturday after teasing us with glorious sunshine up until that point. Turned out the macs we had with us were only shower proof and the rain was a pretty bit more than a shower. We were soaked. Sasha paid £10 for an eco poncho that said 'I'm a potato' on the front and contained a pouch of seeds.
'You can plant it and get a cucumber, that's genius!' We all tried to convince her before the seed bag burst under the pressure of the rain and covered her white top in what looked like gravy stains.
We sat in front of our favourite stall, Socks, My Socks, on a bench that we'd spent the past half an hour eyeing up and waiting to become free. The water had seeped into my wellies and created a slushy warm vacuum. (You know in your heart that nothing feels worse than wet socks, don't try and tell me anything different.) Things weren't looking good; the rain kept coming and the alcohol was running low. Then, The Vaccines. In a bid to stay warm I decided to get up and dance, water squelching in my boot as I went. In a moment that, for all intents and purposes, should have been awful, we had the best time, dancing and singing and laughing some more. Thank you Vaccines. It would have been a right shit afternoon otherwise.
So the sun has set on a bloody crackin' weekend away. (Awfully cliche but I have a photo that goes with the metaphor so here we are.) I can confirm that I have now showered and bathed and showered again. Not sure I've managed to get rid of the smell, although I'm not overly in a rush to lose it either. Every time I get a whiff of all things terrible, I'm reminded of all things amazing. Counting down the days to get all gross again.
