Thanks to a combination of being a cheapskate, a fairweather camper and generally feckless, I’ve managed to reach the age of 30 without ever going to Glastonbury.
Coachella: yes. Benicassim: yes. Various events in Butlin’s holiday camps wandering around the amusement arcades in a fugue state: emphatically, yes. But the world’s greatest music festival has always eluded me, until now, chiefly because I’m going to report for the Guardian. And I’m staying in a cottage.
So far, my concept of the event is hazy: it’s hard to disassociate it from crane shots of flagwaving punters and Jo Whiley’s analysis. All I’m really expecting is the skyrocketing probability of contracting a water-borne disease.
With this in mind, I’m putting myself in your hands. In the comments below, post your suggestions of essential rites of passage for this Glastonbury virgin – or send them via my Twitter, @ben_bt. They can be anything from food choices, to little-known tents, or nocturnal adventures – we’ll pick out the best suggestions, and I’ll be dispatched to tick them off during the weekend, complete with photographic evidence posted in our liveblog. Stagediving naked during Kanye’s set might not make the cut but, other than that, I’m more or less game.
