We went to Glastonbury this weekend, and while it was incredible, there are some things we can't forget - and not all of them good.
No one shares photos of Instagram of the ugly; you are unlikely to be privy to the horrors of the loos (it's not a myth, they truly are revolting), or the acts that didn't impress.
So we want to tell the truth about Glastonbury - the greatest, most magical place on Earth, but also one of the messiest. Here's the great, the good and the ugly and all the things we'll never be able to unsee:
Keith Richards is still living seemingly preserved by a lifetime of drugs. Also Roger Daltrey was probably backstage. Then Mr West messed up the words to Bohemian Rhapsody. Or so they say. We'd given up on him by that point and were eating pie on our way to Arcadia.
"I don't know why I did that," he slurred to his appalled afterwards. Nor do we pal, nor do we.
Rashes, bruises, blisters - these things should come with health warnings and free thick socks.
Only a woman as mighty as Patti Smith could have tempted the Dalai Lama on stage. We sung him happy birthday, as Smith brought a birthday cake lit with a tea light.
Those who have been to Glastonbury will know and understand the horror of the long drops toilets, those who haven't been should consider themselves lucky that they have never had to endure the hideous-smelling loos that rival even the bog of eternal stench in the Labyrinth. We witnessed some poor, damned soul falling over onto the floor. It was a truly terrible sight. One of our festival amigos was unfortunate enough to see a couple enjoying sexual activity in the toilet shudders.
A politically-minded version of Alice in Wonderland, this "pleasure city" as it calls itself blew our minds every night. Every building was covered in posters or signs that demanded political change. It was a drunken nirvana for all socialists and lefties.
No one wants to wake up next to a load of foul smelling hippies. Yes, yes they were kind enough to drape a cover over us while we slept, but it didn't compare to the smell of the tent and the horrible realisation that we might never feel clean again.
Although bandanas seem to be the new accessory of choice for festival-goers, there were still a sea of 18-year-olds wearing natty head garlands. Enough already.
Nothing looks more tired or sad.
It's a wonder no one was hurt. Also the sound of laughing gas.
We're still reeling from the badass beauty of this incredible gang of performers, who strutted their stuff for HOURS in the heat of the NYC Downlow - a set replica of a New York ruined tenement. It was dark, seedy and SO much fun.
A cross between Marc Bolan and David Bowie as the Goblin King, Florence Welch's stage ensemble was perfect. Her cover of the Foos wasn't bad either.
We will not miss being forced out of a tent at 8am when we've been dancing until the early hours by the scorching temperature of our tent. Mother nature is a cruel mistress, and we long for the day when someone will PLEASE invent tents with air conditioning.
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