Remember when festivals were about living the moment, not filming it? When the buzz came from running down to John Menzies to pick up the latest NME, tearing through the pages as new acts got announced week by week?

The frustration when Geoff Ellis dropped those brutal stage clashes — forcing impossible choices between your favourite bands.

**Notice the ticket price - inflation has risen quite sharply since then! I won free tickets that year, courtesy of my local radio station.**

Then, as soon as the gates swung open, it was a mad dash — a proper stampede to the barrier, arms flying, adrenaline pumping. Cups of beer (hopefully beer and not anything else…) soaring through the air like confetti. Bodies packed so tight causing your ribs to turn black and blue. Getting accidentally kicked in the head every so often by passing crowd surfers. Steel toed Doc Martens would be at the top of my banned item wish list!

The stranger next to you accidentally burns a hole in your jacket with their cigarette — a sharp sizzle, and that instant mini panic attack. But you smile politely while silently cursing inside, trying really hard to look cool and like you don’t care.

You suddenly find yourself in the eye of a mosh pit, a swirling vortex of chaos. Heart pounding as you try to jump up and down to the same rhythm otherwise you will find yourself at the bottom of a pileup. An unidentified hand extends in your direction and you grab onto as if your life depends on it. You thank them profusely. That cool, composed exterior is no longer holding together.

Portaloos with queues that seemed to go on forever — absolutely gut-wrenching. You end up coming home either covered in mud or on the verge of heat exhaustion, with no middle ground at all.

Then comes the ritual — watching through the BBC Scotland TV footage afterwards, eyes glued to the screen, hoping to catch a glimpse of your wild, sweaty self lost somewhere in the crowd. I’d always be there somewhere, but you’d admittedly need a magnifying glass — plus a lot of pausing and rewinding with the remote control.

And you do it all again. Year after year. Because nothing else quite matches it.

P.S. We are definitely NOT talking about the year David Bowie pulled out or the White Stripes no show… those wounds will never ever heal!

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