Why bother with the restival?
I returned yesterday from a long weekend away at the Bestival music festival on the Isle of Wight. This is the first festival I've ever been to, and it opened my eyes to heretofore unimagined worlds of human excrement. It is a special situation indeed when you enter a toilet with a 'devil's coil' nestled delicately at the back of the seat, and actually find yourself pleased that it compares so favourably with the ones you have previously entered.
I am dwelling unnecessarily on the pooiness of the event though - it was actually what is technically known as a 'fine old time'. I got to listen to lots of lovely music (I think the intensely sad Bobby McGee's were my favourites of the weekend, stealing my heart with the woeful lament 'I don't want to be Jar Jar Binks'), eat lots of bacon and run around a wooden maze. What more could a man want?