We tempted fate and drove to Suffolk for the second Sunday in a row. Last week this would lead to vomiting, fever and weight loss. And we were going to a music festival, with chemical toilets, unwashed hands, unshowered people and dodgy noodles vans. It's like we were just asking fate to come and wipe his shitty ring piece on to our eyes.
I have hardly been to any festivals. I was never interested in music as a young man and was over cautious and nervous and lazy and didn't like the idea of having to shit into a pit. I went to one Glastonbury in the late 90s and then again in 2001 and enjoyed myself up to a point, but I think there was a big part of me that would have preferred sitting on my sofa and watching telly. I was an idiot. If there is one thing that has remained consistent in my life it is probably that.
Within half an hour of getting to Latitude I was wishing I had been here all weekend, and indeed that I had spent the last 25 years coming to this and similar festivities. I was smitten in a way that I never have been before.
It helped that the sun was shining and that I was with my wonderful girlfriend and that despite the fact that I had to do two gigs it felt like we were getting the mini holiday that oysters or mackerel or whatever it was had prevented us from having last week. At this point I was only in the performers' camping area, but the sound of distant music and the smiling faces of the other campers and the fun of putting up the tent that I'd bought a couple of years ago but never used was making me ridiculously happy. Though in a slightly bitter sweet way because as I wandered down to the toilet block I couldn't help thinking what an idiot I was for not having wanted to do all this when I was as young as most of the people around me. If only I had been less self conscious and awkward and shy I could have cavorted around and got drunk and taken drugs and made love with women with tattoos and dreadlocks. Like I said, I was an idiot.
But I resolved to try not to give myself any more regrets about my idiocy and to enjoy myself now I was here, as an ancient 43 year old man.
And I did just that. Without the self-consciousness that blighted my younger days. Sitting in the sun, eating expensive pizza, bumping into friends, spending some time with my brilliant, long-suffering and now thankfully non-pukey girlfriend. It was a relaxed, non-judgemental, friendly atmosphere, everyone just wanting to have fun and no one looking for an argument or a fight. I am sure it was always this way. Maybe I just relished the chance to relax. Perhaps I have been stuck in darkened rooms for too long. I must make more time for this kind of thing.
Mumford and Sons were on on the main stage in the afternoon before my gig and although I am not a massive fan of the band we went down to watch and it was terrifically enjoyable. As much people watching as listening to the band. There was a small boy sat with his back to the stage, concentrating on his book. I enjoyed his detachment and related to his desire to convey that he was above all this kind of thing. I hoped he would snap out of that earlier in his life than I managed to. There was a baby, wearing large, yellow, ear protecting headphones, whilst suckling on his mother's breast. It looked like he was a muso listening to his own tunes, not even taking a break to eat.
Mumford and Sons were playing loads of songs I had never heard and I although I was too far away for them to hear I kept shouting "Play the famous one!" to no avail. "If only they would play the famous one we could go and get on with something else," I told my girlfriend. "I don't think you're quite entering the spirit of this," she replied.
"Why don't they just play the famous one? Perhaps they don't realise that's the one that everyone likes it. What if they don't play it?" I shouted louder, "PLAY THE FAMOUS ONE!" But they didn't play it. They kept playing none famous ones. "They could at least put the chorus of the famous ones into all the non-famous ones," I suggested. It's only polite. I hate Mumford and Sons for not playing the song I want to hear right now. PLAY THE FAMOUS ONE."
But the famous one remained unplayed.
"This is our last song," said Bob Mumford (whose sons look about the same age as him).
"Oh no, what if it's not the famous one. They might not play it," I anxiously said to my girlfriend. But I needn't have worried as they began to play the familiar opening refrain of the famous Mumford and Sons song. I realised that the Mumford family had cleverly played me like a fool. They had deliberately left the famous song until last. They know what they're doing these people. From the surprised cheer that went up from the crowd I guess that I was not the only one astonished that this would be the last song.
Then I had to go over to the big comedy tent to do my gig. I didn't massively enjoy it. It was quite hard work and the acoustics weren't great so it was hard to ascertain how well I was going down, but I think it was all right over all. Andy Hollingworth took
this amazing photo in the back stage area. Even though it doesn't look like it we were outside in direct sunlight, but he somehow did his magic to counteract that.
My second gig, much later in the literary tent was more enjoyable, though I had to compete with Vampire Weekend who were making quite a racket and at one point sounded like they were covering Cotton Eyed Joe by Rednex.
At midnight we went to sit amongst hundreds of people as Daniel Kitson and Gavin Osbourne did a story telling event. It was the end of the festival and people were exhausted, but we sat there underneath the stars in the middle of nowhere, drinking this in. Even though I needed to sleep and desperately wanted to get back to my tent to lie down on the stony floor I was very glad to be here to witness this.
Seize the day you youngsters. Don't waste those precious days.
