Oops, I love August Bank Holiday: Reading Festival

Nice and hot, all the time in the world…
reading 76

…the summer lay ahead, meaning lazy, hot days in the countryside and by the beach, the free festivals, a trip to the west country, all culminating with the Reading Festival on the last weekend of August over the Bank Holiday.
At the end of the summer – which hadn’t been completely marred by burgeoning police brutality and right wing officialdom, although the writing was on the wall for the end of the seventies – Vin and I arrived at Reading bronzed and ready for action. Doug and Caitlin were waiting for us with the tents, still wrapped. After putting them up on a patch of ground surrounded by pennants and banners, we went in search of more friends and familiar faces. There were so many we were soon completely zonked from the sharing of joints, lines of speed and cans of beer. Next morning the music started up and the afternoon passed in a mad celebration of skanking to the great reggae bands, who were unfortunately pelted with beer cans by the racist ignoramuses amongst the crowd, fusing into the trippity jazz rock of Mallard and Gong. Saturday produced a similar blast, with the set by Van Der Graaf Generator horribly shortened by the rain getting into the amps, and on Sunday the whole thing deteriorated as the rednecks took over once Brand X had left the stage.
On the morning following the festival’s end I was due to enroll at the college, but the horrible truth dawned on me: still no authority had stepped forward to offer me any funding for the three-year long course, and so a decision had to be made.
‘How much dope have we got left, Vin?’
‘Just under an eighth.’
‘And money?’
‘I’ve got just less than a fiver.’
‘I can match that. OK, what are we waiting for?
‘We’re off to find another festival.’

Good luck Muse tomorrow tonight

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