Latitude Festival.

Promoted as ‘more than just a music festival’. I’ll be the judge of that. My (somewhat hazy) memories of the weekend went a little something like this: (feel free to draw breath at anytime).

Friday: Arrive at Henman Park, Suffolk, after three busses, four hours and two smoked salmon bagels. Set up camp. Try to pitch tent. Mess tent-pitching up. Try again. Success. Venture around campsite checking all the essentials. Toilet. Check. Shower. Check. VIP Bar. Check. Most importantly: food at an accessible distance from tent. Check. Pour myself a sneaky vodka and make way down to arena to peruse the festival’s offerings. On the wooded walk from VIP to music zone, I couldn’t help but wonder: Why is there pink spray-painted sheep everywhere? Why are some of the ground staff dressed up as fairies? And why is it always the overweight, ugly girls dressed up as fairies? Why are cute girls never in fairy attire? The mind boggles.

Now, due to the lack of printable timetable on the Latitude website, I have no chance of knowing who is playing when and where. Arrive at arena to find out a program is a whopping £8. Not kosher. Steal a glance at a fellow festival goer’s program to realise I have missed one of my favourite acts: Micah. P. Hinson. Many a night has been spent with just me, a bottle of Bombay and Micah wailing about despair and heartbreak and my nodding in agreeance. I am brutally disappointed to have missed him. But as any festival trooper knows, the key is to press on. Try to head into the comedy tent but it’s totally rammed. Big sigh. Head back to Main Stage to check out The Go! Team. Fun. But why do they have an exclamation point in the middle of their name? It’s! weird. British Sea Power. Cool. Death Cab for Cutie. Superb. Franz Ferdinand round out the day’s music with a fun, energy-packed set. They look almost happy to be there, playing all their hits – ‘Matinee’, ‘Take me Out’ and closing the night with ‘This Fire’. Fabulous. Cruise back to the VIP Bar, sink a few more vodkas, cause some havoc, and call it a night.

Saturday. Get up after a semi-decent tent sleep. Devour a fry-up in record time and pull my Wellies on for the day’s adventures. Venture back to comedy tent once more to check out Bill Bailey. Rammed again. No hope of getting anywhere near the tent let alone within earshot. This becomes the comedic situation the entire weekend. Although it’s not really funny. Catch the end of White Lies to ease my lack-of-comedy blow. Head to the Uncut Arena to see what’s happening and find the delightful Beth Rowley wow-ing the crowd. The French representative at this year’s Eurovision Song Contest- Sebastien Tellier-follows up and was quite the treat. Although I must confess the only reason I went to see him were due to his Eurovision ties. Call me crazy but that’s just the way I roll. Wander up the hill to watch Seasick Steve and find myself witness to what I like to call ‘Crowd-participation-gone-bad.’ Steve invites a young lass on stage to sing a little tune to her, while she looks more mortified than a teenage boy whose Mother has just found his stash of Playboys. Highly entertaining for everyone but her. As the sun starts to set I join the masses in the Uncut Arena to watch the Guillemots play to a packed house, followed by the self-indulgent ‘I’ll play a song for 45 minutes if I want to simply because I can’ spectacular that is the Mars Volta.

Back to Main Stage to watch Elbow. Amazed by geezers who know every lyric. Watch grown men almost cry while they rock out ‘On a Day Like This’. Surprisingly enjoy all that Elbow has to offer. Stand around in the rain. Saturday’s headliners, Sigur Ros, appear.. They open with my favourite track: ‘Svefn-g-englar’ and continue the mesmerizing tunes. Shiver in the cold. Watch set, entranced by Birgisson’s falsetto abilities. Stick it out but towards the end start secretly wishing I was back in the tent playing cards in my sleeping bag.

Decide it’s time for a dance at ‘Club Di Fromage’: The outdoor club in the woods. What an absolute treat. A dance party, well, in the woods. Doesn’t get much better than that. Tracks come in thick and fast. Vanilla Ice. Blondie. Michael Jackson. Dolly Parton. Get in argument with pre-pubescent youth about personal dance space. He doesn’t seem to get the picture. A few casual elbows to his back and still no improvement. One big shove and a few words from my mate and he sulks off into the crowd. Dance in reclaimed personal space. Quiet sense of triumph ensues. Stagger up the path to the VIP Camping area and crawl into my freezing tent for some sleep. Awoken at 4am to the sound of someone vomiting outside my tent. Glorious.

Part of our Tuborg Festival Blogger series!

Click here for Part Two!