Monday 28th June
The queue to get off the site is massive, so we’re quite content to sit around biding our time – certainly beats sitting in a hot car for four hours.
It’s sunny. Surely some kind of sick joke?
We’re enjoying watching people playing Bog Lottery. There are five portaloos facing our tents, which we’ve numbered one to five. Judging by the expression on the faces of those who approach and open the door to number three, and their visible recoil from the sight that greets them, untold horrors lurk within.
We get talking to a woman who’s been camped next to us. Her friend went home on Saturday morning with a bad back, leaving her another tent and a load of belongings to deal with on her own. To make matters worse, some bastard who befriended her has nicked her phone, sunglasses and earring, and her tent has been literally floating in a pool of sloppy mud for the best part of two days. Our festival has been remarkably uneventful in comparison.
In amongst the revellers packing up their stuff a man, stark naked except for an ankle chain and the feathers in his hair, wanders thoughtfully about stroking his chin, every now and again breaking into a run. The drugs are obviously taking some time to wear off.
The queue’s died down, and it’s time to make a move. We stroll past numerous abandoned tents and bottles of dubious yellow liquid and out of the gate, taking a brief moment to look back at the site with some sadness. Out in the car park stands a small hillock of discarded mud-ruined footware, a fitting monument to this year’s festival.