Now that I’ve been relegated to the passenger seat on a full time basis I can gaze out of the window to my hearts content and drift off without crashing. This comes from my mum’s side of the family. On those long car journeys to Scotland as kids she would stare in fascination at the industrial landscapes of the midlands, whilst falling asleep anywhere north of Carlisle.

So, Chelmsford for the first time since we left college. I almost felt like travelling back in time to a long lost era that only existed in those dodgy post war town planning films. You know, Flowers on the roundabouts for this years Britain in Bloom competition, the joys of concrete brutalism and all that?

Anyway, I was quite impressed with the place. No flytipping on verges, fridges and mattresses on street corners or any of that other collective filth that is a place like London. One thing though, I can admit to feeling a little disappointed at not seeing a shirtless man on a green council mower (John Deere), for me that would have completed the suburban dream.

We turned up at Mandy’s friends flat to a hive of activity including sandwich making, packing waterproofs into bags and endless conversations about sneaking booze past security. It was at this point that it dawned on me that I was going to a festival with three women. Which as I suspected it might, turned out to be a great day.

Obviously preparation is the key to the female festival experience. For instance, Just when the munchies start to set in, tin foil parcels appear full of tasty munch. None of this queuing up with students to spend six quid on a plate of soggy noodles, oh no. It’s cold pizza, ham rolls and Tracker bars, all washed down Vodka that has been cunningly mixed with Fanta to avoid detection. If the famous five went to festivals, it would be like this.

And what of the V festival itself? I’ve always found it quite accommodating and accessible, it’s easy to get to and is set in a beautiful park full of enormous oak trees. The natural lay of the land creates slopes so that everyone can see, which also sorts the drainage out. Okay, so the commercialism rampages out of control, and its not going to fare very well in the super cool G2 section. But if you want to avoid the commercial trappings of a market economy go and live in a tepee with Ray Mears and drink beetle urine.

Great to see so may local people there too, as music festivals tend to be fairly white middle class affairs (None more so than Glastonbury) it’s nice to mix with the less obvious festival type, and who better than Essex man

Which brings me to the highlight of the day. Which had to be the people at the festival, reinforcing my belief that Essex produces the most down to earth, best looking and funniest people in the south. Men and boys, well groomed in cashmere tops and spanking new white Lacoste trainers. Girls and women, straight blonde hair, fake tan and this years patterned wellies. Great.

Wicked day out.

PS. Kasabian weren’t bad either!

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