The Fatal Mistake I Made Leaving Glastonbury

There were some crazy days way back when...but I got things exceedingly wrong one year…

Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!

Yes, I know, you’re all bored shitless of hearing about Glastonbury Festival by now. But this one’s a ‘funny’. On many levels.

This is a tale about how I got things completely wrong when leaving the festival after a particularly hard year of partying.

You see, way back when we went IN. Hard. Fast. Endlessly searching for more fun. Very little sleep. Mucho dancing. Blisters. Headaches. Dehydration. Lost sunglasses. The works.

These were the days of getting stuck in Frantanamo Bay (my nickname for Fran Cutler’s wonderous - but wild - backstage area) and seeing very little band action.

One year I literally saw one band and hated myself for getting so stuck in the chatmandu of Frantanamo and the Winnebagos.

At one point I did manage to persuade a bestie to come out to see the debut performance from Christine and the Queens, only for said friend to feel faint after having no sleep and me having to take her back to the Winnebago for a ‘panic banana’ to help the sugar levels. By the time we returned to the Pyramid Stage, Christine had finished her set. You get the picture; we were a wild bunch of cats who played the festival game so very wrong. Not looking after ourselves particularly well.

Then there was one year where I left the festival with a showbiz writer friend from Closer Magazine and as we made it round the first small roundabout out of the festival she casually said: “Dean, you do realise you’re going the wrong way around the roundabout.” I had no idea. I wasn’t even used to driving abroad like I am today. I clearly shouldn’t have been driving. In fact, I consider that moment a rather lucky escape. There were no coppers around.

I wrote about some of the crazy moments of yester-year at Glasto a while back on this Substack newsletter HERE.

But I didn’t reveal this ridiculous confession.

My friend and business partner Rave and I had gone hard. From the get-go. We saw lots of bands, hit the dance areas like Block 9, Maceo’s and Arcadia. We indulged on every level. It was a joyous vintage year and to be frank the last year we went “tonto” together and came back absolutely ruined. Since then, we’ve managed to properly control ourselves and come back having had a great time but not been bedridden with our liver and kidneys screaming for assistance.

So many amusing things had happened that year. I remember being given bunny ears by a friend so my group could keep an eye on where I was in the crowd. I kept losing everyone. They worked a treat - even if I did look like the Easter Bunny that had got lost.

Another friend who had been partying for days was forceably locked into her own Winnebago by her hubby to ensure she went to bed. Half an hour later her neighbour, the actress Liv Tyler, overheard my pal’s screams for help and arrived with a tool kit to unscrew a ventilation system and release her from the confinement of her winne. Classic.

I remember crawling around on the floor through people’s legs in Arcadia during a drum and bass set by 90s Legend Goldie.

I bumped into a male model friend early one morning heading back to my tent and he was with his then girlfriend, Dua. “Dua, that’s a cool name,” I said lighting a fag and thinking nothing of it. You guessed it, that was my encounter with a pretty-much-unheard-of Dua Lipa.

I was sitting on the ground of Block 9 having a ‘rave break’ with Zoe Ball. I was making voooooooooosh noises all day. It was amazing how you could be in a huge crowd but if you sat down in the throng the sound was completely blocked out and you could have a lovely little chat.

YOU GET ME. It was a vintage year on so many levels.

So as Rave and I left the site and make our way to my car we were in pretty bad shape. Shaky. Needing food. Needing cuddles. And desperate to get home and under a duvet to watch the highlights with a Thai takeaway.

But we didn’t rush home. We went via Burger King (it’s a universal tradition as it’s the first proper roundabout you hit after leaving Shepton Mallet) and enjoyed a Chicken Royale. Then as we continued, we saw a road sign pointing to Longleat Safari Park. The one off the telly. At that point I’d never visited and had no idea how the park worked.

“Do you reckon seeing lots of cute animals might help our comedowns?” I said after a large belch of BK Max.

“Oooooooh, that’s a good idea.” Replied Rave.

We diverted to Longleat. Like utter dicks. Well, we actually thought this was a genius idea until we got in.

“How you guys doing? Have you made it to Stonehenge yet?” came a text from our pals still inside the festival.

“We are heading to Longleat for a quick whizz round the zoo animals to help our comedowns,” Rave replied.

“WTF,” came the reply. And they weren’t wrong.

The second we paid sixty-odd-quid each to get in we began our journey around the wildlife park car trail. It was immediately obvious we’d fucked up. The animals were taunting us at every stage. As if our comedowns weren’t bad enough, we had camels, rhino, elephants, giraffe and other creatures judging our every mood. It was genuinely an awful experience and by the time we hit the monkey area we were on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

The little fuckers started doing their worst and attacking the car. The windscreen wipers were whizzing about, the ariel was screwed, they started to attack the lights at the front and the back bumpers – anything those little shits could pull or try and undo they did. It was utter hell to live through.

To make matters worse we were in a queue behind some very slow cars and there was very little we could do about it.

By the time we got to the tiger cage we were at our whit’s end. Rave freaked out because one of the windows wouldn’t go up and the TIGER got up and was making its way towards the car. I genuinely thought she’d shat her pants. After the tiger encounter, I said I had to get us out of this situation and back onto the open road. I overtook as many cars as I could when it was safe and clear. We needed to evacuate ourselves by any means possible from the torture of these magical animals.

Going into Longleat on the comedown of all comedowns was the worst idea imaginable. Absolutely hilarebags upon reflection, but it felt like something out of a very bad Trainspotting psychotic dream sequence.

So, there we go. There’s the worst possible thing you could do once you’ve left Glastonbury Festival after a hardcore few days. The comedown was real. The animals were very real. And a big lesson was learnt. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT head to Longleat Wildlife Park after a bender at Glastonbury on your way home.

Worth noting, I’ve since returned to Longleat Safari Park and it was a beautiful experience. No triggering. Just pure joy. They do a lovely summer festival so do go check our Longleat…

Anyway, tell me your festival horror stories below – the grittier the better, gang.