The Outdoor Type

The last time I went to the Reading Festival I bought a day ticket. For some reason me and a couple of mates got up at five thirty in the morning to catch a train there. Only to realise that it was Sunday service and so we had to wait just under an hour until the first tube. Once on the train from Paddington to Reading the drinking began, and by late morning I was already feeling quite drunk. Twelve hours later I was on my own walking around as it began to rain looking for the area where some mates who camped the weekend were. I walked through tents after tents trying to find them until in my drunken haze I fell thigh deep into the river. The river that is full of piss and what else I don’t know. Then instead of walking all the way to a bridge over the river I straddled action man style across a barrier. In the process of doing this I cut up the palms of my hands. By the time I got to the area where they were camped I was soaked through from the river and the rain with blood smeared on my hands.
On the train home in the morning I smelt worse after the one day than people who had camped there for four days.

It’s the Reading festival this weekend. I’ve just seen some of it on the TV and it’s a quagmire. Even if all the great dead rock stars came back from the grave and formed the most super of super groups I’d be apprehensive about getting a ticket. If the weather was guaranteed to be good then I’d consider going, but this is England not California.
Even if the weather was nice and sunny the whole time I’d still be apprehensive to camp for four days. I’ve only been camping a few times (I take it that sleeping in a tent in the back garden as a kid doesn’t count), and I have no intention of ever camping again. Maybe for one night in the summer if the weather is nice, but I’m just not really the outdoor type. I prefer concrete under my feet.