When my son Matt told me that he was missing Latitude this year, since none of his usual crew were up for it, I put my hand up. Even after all the disasters such posturing has led me into in the past, I still like to shock. But there was something pushing from the back of mind, something unique, odd, not to be missed, German.... Only later did I notice the clash with the Lords’ Test and the enormity of the folly.
Matt has fixed views on these matters, so we were packed and away to join the front of the queue. I had a late panic as we passed the Southwold turn (“Just drop me off at The Crown, Matt”) but held my nerve. My personal Maconie had us set up base camp under his usual tree, shaded from the blazing sun, in acres of space, with just a few neighbours in the near distance to wave to. This is for me!
A lot of the stories proved true. No-one snarled at me all weekend. The only two drunks encountered propped each other up and staggered politely away. And, joy, the shopkeepers all said “please” and “thank you”, rather than advising me that there I went. Shops in profusion, too. Rather surprisingly, no Waitrose, but the Mini Mart used their pricing policy and added a rather Mornington Crescent twist by enforcing queues on the way in, rather than the way out.
Almost anything could be had, including a replacement for the tent you left at Glasto. Those pop-up ones you know they will recycle next year were marginally less than a Rochdale semi. You could fill the fridge, buy a new wardrobe, get a tattoo, recharge the dog, see a Gypsy fortune teller and so much more even before the shake-down at the arena gate. And get the latest test score!
I never did discover what my bag was being searched for. The rather matronly lady I favoured confided in me that “she could tell”, but I could have had a kilo of best Afghani I suspect, all priced up and ready to go. Not that it would have sold: only around one’s own tent did one even discretely puff a little local-grown ganjha. Nobody inhaled.