I really didn’t want to go to Latitude. Just as my mum had predicted, going to a festival with Lisa was a disaster before it had begun: we were given rubbish shifts; we didn’t withdraw our applications in time so were forced to go or risk losing our £200 deposits; we left booking trains too late so it was ridiculously expensive, and then we were offered a lift anyway but couldn’t get a refund on our train tickets. We hated Latitude before we had got there.
But then we got there and something changed. Everything was just so beautiful and everyone was happy and nothing mattered. I will forever look back on those next few days with the fondest memories. We made friends with a wonderful gang from Lincoln, Dom, Ella, Emily and Bessie, who we convinced to work with us on our shifts. We ate a lot of free, and gluten-free, toast. A lot. Lisa attempted several coup d’etats when I was appointed team leader of our campsite. We rollerskated. We said yes. We admired pastel-coloured sheep. We tackled a rubbish zip wire reserved for kids. We made friends with a large group of 30-something men on a stag-do, sprayed them with water when they were too drunk and stopped them setting each other on fire. We ate more toast. The official Latitude photographer papped Lisa and I and told us ‘THIS IS THE PHOTO OF THE FESTIVAL!’ More toast.
Latitude was undoubtedly my favourite festival, and I haven’t even mentioned the music yet. Highlights included MØ, Foals, Local Natives, James Blake, Maccabees and The 1975. We missed Alt-J and, more importantly, GCSE poet extraordinaire Carol Ann Duffy, but I do NOT want to talk about it.
On the coach home from Latitude, I received an email from Hotbox Events, the company we volunteered with, offering me a paid promotion as Zone Supervisor at Leeds Festival…
Hit the Road, Jack 