On the Saturday I was awoken by booming dub reggae from some early morning sound system — and 16 hours later, Elvis Costello sang me to sleep. The next morning I was snatched from my damp and fidgety slumber by some unidentified anarcho-protest-duo — "Revolution / Rev-oooh-looo-shunnn!" — from whence, who knows?
There was always one piece of sensory stimulus to mould and shape my day. Buffeted like a silver ball in one huge cultural pinball machine, I flitted, unavoidably, between standout Pop Music and standup comedy, hiking from field to field in search of the ultimate bill.
In the Theatre Field (a very devoted sort of field, as ill-supplied by drink and nosh as it deliberately was — grape juice and Clusters were all you could suck on — and that was unofficial) the very living, breathing breadth of the place was illustrated to me. A weird performing artist dressed as a fly (complete with metal sieves for eyes) began a wiggly dance behind two cardboard halves of an imaginary eggshell, on an impromptu sort of stage, and all for the benefit of three people.
Meanwhile, fireside fave Attilla The Stockbroker drew in a massive crowd from far and wide to witness a lunchtime session of his anti-establishment skiffle poetry in the main marquee. Over the hedge, trapeze artists were doing their ...