Thursday 23rd June

9.30am
I wake hungover, tired and hot and suffering from the beginnings of a sore throat. Thankfully, unzipping the tent and gazing out upon the sunlit Glastonbury site is always a panacaea. That, and a good strong cup of coffee.

10.30am
As each member of our party gradually crawls and clambers out of their tent, I’m reminded of the fact that at Glastonbury you can be assured there’s always someone in a worse state than you – on this occasion Andy and Graham, our two resident pillheads. Andy: "My head’s like a big field. A big field full of tents that are all empty".

11am
Graham: "If I have half a pill I’ll puke".
Andy: "You’re such a V Festival type".

2pm
A second trip to the car to retrieve my remaining two litres of wine. The heat is intense, and we collapse exhausted in the car park for half an hour, enjoying the stillness and silence and feeling our skin cooking.

4pm
The return journey to the tents is punctuated by a stop-off for alcoholic refreshment at the Leftfield Tent. This impromptu break ends up lasting a couple of hours, during which time we spot the first great T-shirt slogan of the festival – "My money went to Nigeria and all I got was this lousy T-shirt" – and Gav discovers that Ian Brown’s on the bill: "That means I’m the second worst singer at Glastonbury".

8.30pm
Following the afternoon’s pints of Burrow Hill, the wine is slipping down dangerously easily. The sun is setting, and at last the temperature is becoming bearable.

2am
Still at the tents, a drunken mess, having failed to hook up with Phill, Andy P or Swiss Toni, explore the site or indeed achieve anything meaningful. Where the fuck did the day go?