I’ve never been to a festival. There. I’ve confessed. Not one. Most folk have some heroic tales of Glastonburys past or T in the Parks they can’t even remember, but they were there.
I’m not sure how I’ve missed out but I have. Probably something to do with an aversion to chemical loos and having something better to do. Though, these days I do rather fancy the posh ones with yurts, quinoa and hot water. If only they didn’t cost as much as a fortnight in the Maldives….
This year though we spent some time at Mugstock. What? You haven’t heard of it. I’m not surprised, it’s a dinky little festival not far from Glasgow. I say dinky – they say boutique. Whatever.
Now after going about in disguised as the cat family and watching the Boys taking part in a world-record kazoo conga, my mind is changed. Put my name down for the luxury camping experience (a quarter as comfortable as home and 15 times the price), I’m off to the tie-dye discount store.