And that story, in a nutty shell of truthyness, illustrates why I don’t do festivals (I might one day make an exception for the mighty Bloodstock) – our old and prediction-phobic friend, the UK climate.
If it’s not raining, then it’s blazingly sunny and so hot that it threatens to drop me like it was fourth-year Religious Education class.
There is no point in trying to predict what kind of garb will suit the day ahead – as your best-considered fashion plans will be stymied by a rogue weather front which suddenly sneaks up behind you in the street, taps a shoulder merrily and promptly dumps some vertical freezing water all over your new Fat Face zip-up top and jeans.
Tis a crap state of affairs and no mistake. If you’re going to Isle of Wight this weekend, do keep safe and try not to fall asleep during Tom Petty. Despite the compelling temptation to feign your death, obviously…