So long, fes­ti­val sea­son – you were mag­nif­i­cent



And so we bid farewell to yet an­other sum­mer fes­ti­val sea­son. no longer is it ap­pro­pri­ate to eat an en­tire box of Quorn mini eggs washed down with a can of luke­warm lager for break­fast. no longer will you have to pack clothes that can with­stand four dif­fer­ent sea­sons over one week­end. no longer will you have to sleep in a tiny house made of ny­lon. And we’re to­tally gut­ted. fes­ti­val sea­son is an ex­cuse to be­come as close to feral as it’s pos­si­ble to be with­out ben fogle mak­ing a doc­u­men­tary about you. dur­ing fes­ti­val sea­son you are free to be­come the show­er­dodg­ing free spirit you al­ways knew you were. be­hav­iour which would usu­ally get you dis­owned by your mates – such as wear­ing glit­ter, singing

Queen songs on an acous­tic gui­tar at 3am, and ac­tively en­joy­ing elec­tro-swing – are pos­i­tively en­cour­aged.

bes­ti­val – which takes place this week­end – is the last big blowout event of the year, and it’ll then be an­other eight months at least un­til we’re al­lowed to run wild in the fields, carparks and stately home back gar­dens of the UK again. i’m al­ready out of the game though, bow­ing out last week­end at the ever de­light­ful end of The road in dorset, cap­ping off a great sum­mer with a spir­i­tual head­line set from fa­ther John Misty, the eat­ing of many, many pies, danc­ing to in­die disco clas­sics on a light-up //satur­day night fever// dance­floor next to a gi­ant wooden boat, a 1am ses­sion play­ing 1970s soft rock in a wooden record­ing stu­dio the size of a phonebox, some karaoke in a bath­tub and a cou­ple of pints of wine. way too much fun, in other words.

Add to that one of the best Glas­ton­burys in years, some fab­u­lous frol­ick­ing at field day, the day i man­aged to see Queens of the stone Age at both read­ing and leeds fes­ti­vals in the same day and Tom Petty and ste­vie nicks let­ting me in­dulge my driv­e­time Amer­i­cana fan­tasies at bri­tish sum­mer Time in Hyde Park and you can see why i’m about en­ter au­tumn in a state of bliss – but also ex­treme knack­ered­ness. it is then with tired hands and a heavy heart that i pack away my wet wipes for yet an­other year – but you bet­ter be­lieve that i’m al­ready work­ing out what fes­ti­vals i’ll be ram­pag­ing through in 2018. now here’s hop­ing i don’t for­get where i’ve hid­den the glit­ter… @leoniemay­cooper

“It’s an ex­cuse to be­come as feral as pos­si­ble”

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