Pointless Points

Urban Outfitters Want all my Money for Postage

2012-04-29T08:19:11Z

Urban Outfitters needs to have a serious conversation with the Post Office. I bought a lot of socks online last week. To have them sent to somewhere in the UK, was £3.99. Lovely. I thought it'd be about a fiver for Denmark. Nope, they wanted £15.95. For socks. To Denmark.

I had them sent to my parents, who posted them on to me for roughly £3.50.

Maybe that's just how things are, I thought. So I headed to Topshop to find something similarly priced and see what the postage was for that.

That's a fiver, Urban Outfitters. £5 for postage to Denmark. £4 for postage in the UK mainland.

What's even weirder is that according to their sites they both use DPD for international delivery...

Thank God I don't live in Norway!

I'm going to try to ask them what this is about and see what they say.

Update: After sometime, I got this reply from Claire Riche at UO, "International shipping fees are based on the average cost to ship an order. Please be assured we continually examine the rates we provide to ensure we are offering both competitive and fair shipping charges to all of our customers. While shipping fees are subject to change, we will continue to strive to offer you the lowest possible rate. I apologize if this change to our shipping charges has caused you any inconvenience."

I still don't understand how Topshop can charge so much less. I think UO is pulling a fast one, those cheeky bastards.

Rockabye Baby!

2012-04-26T06:29:27Z

My brother introduced me to this mind blowing concept last night, and I shall be eternally grateful. So shall my as yet unconceived children. Introducing Rockabye Baby!.

There are loads of albums available, 33 according to Wikipedia, from Kanye West to Tool. They say, "the series is designed for modern-music-minded parents who want to share songs like 'Paranoid Android' with their kids without scarring them for life." Brilliant.

Head over to Spotify to check out more.

Goa, India

2012-04-01T06:54:41Z

I've been meaning to write this post for months. I've no idea why I haven't got around to it, but here I am now.

We went to Goa in January. I spent two weeks there, Thilde, 5 (she did a yoga teacher training course at Whispering Lakes, with Tribe. You can read about it here). I was extremely excited about going to India as I've never been before, but I also knew that Goa wasn't quite as Indian as you can get. I hoped to see it as a good introduction, or rather, an easy way to get acquainted, albeit it a little bit, with India.

And indeed it was. Goa is to India as Egypt is to Africa. At least, that's how I felt. The Portuguese influence is so very strong (they were there for 500 years, and only left in the 60s) that it's hard to see India. European architecture and huge churches are all over the place, and (unbeknown to me) it's an absolutely huge Russian tourist destination. Many of the locals spoke Russian, and all the menus, keyboards, and adverts were in Russian. Very odd.

Of course you could find India nestled among all this. We visited markets, temples and even behind the beaches of Goa there were local schools and families going about their business. The food was absolutely delicious, the people friendly, and the cows non-intrusive.

It just wasn't the India you so often see portrayed. That's probably a good thing. I've heard of many people who've jumped into Mumbai or Delhi for 2 weeks and have sworn never to return. Thilde has been a number of times and spent a great deal of time travelling around, and was still a bit skeptical, even though she loves the country. I'd like to see that side, as much as it might shock my Western self.

We flew from London with BA, which was all very smooth, and headed straight to Agonda. We were to stay a week there, then head up to Arambol and Mandrem. Agonda was beautiful. A lot less crowded than Arambol and even Mandrem, the crowd were slightly older and more relaxed.

We stayed at Tina Beach Resort in a fantastic cabin. The cabin was clean, large and spacious, the staff friendly, prices excellent, and the resort clean, tidy, and very open.

The beach was lovely, and we spent a very relaxing week chilling out on the beach, swimming, eating far too much naan and curry, and while Thilde practised her yoga in the evening, I supervised with a cold beer. It was bliss.

We set off for Mandrem early one morning. It was a 3 hour drive and we decided to split it up by stopping in Mapusa, a town about half-way, for some lunch and a market visit. This was a little more India. Busy, noisy and a bit of an assault on your senses. We browsed the market, and inevitably I got stuck in a spice stall. After a lot of talking with the lovely woman who ran it, I promised her I'd return later. Which I did and got a pretty good deal on some various spices (I'll admit that what made it all the more satisfying was seeing some other girls handing over huge amounts of cash, while I slipped my few hundred Rupees across). I also ended up buying some bowls too. They have the most amazing kitchenware. All bronze and silver and, needless to say, a fraction of the price back home. The food stalls are also incredible; fruit, vegetables (the size of which I've never seen before! Papayas the size of large watermelons), dried fish, sugarcane - it was beautiful.

We found some lunch in a very small and local cafe with only one dish on the menu - a delicious daal with cumin, and chapati. We sat for a while and got our breath back, and then set out to find a bank - something which is easier said than done, oddly enough. We then jumped back in the car and set off for our final destination.

Once we arrived, we visited Thilde's yoga school to check in and make sure everything was all good, then set out to find accomodation. After spending the best part of the day walking up and down the beach, we finally cut a good deal with the manager, Mr. Kumar, of a new place right next to the school, called Go-Ym. We stayed in a beautiful cottage, with a little balcony, real roof (!), and attached bathroom. This was pure luxury, but as it was to be Thilde's home for the next 4 weeks, we decided it was worth it (although the prices were very agreeable compared to what we had been asked for at other places down the beach. On top of this the food was excellent and superb value). We loved it at Go-Ym. Govin, Sarge, and Mr.Kumar were wonderfully friendly and helpful. There wasn't anything we asked that they didn't know, or didn't find out for us. As mentioned, the food was delicious, and once I said I liked spicy food, Govin tried to push me to my limit with each meal.

Thilde started her yoga school the next day, so I was left to my own devices. This meant a lot of reading, a lot of swimming, a lot of eating and a day trip to old Goa, which was beautiful (I was also accosted by a group of young Indian men who wanted their photo taken with me. I had heard about this before, but it was still very odd!).

I was so grateful that we were in Mandrem and not further up the beach in Arambol (it's one very long beach). There seemed to be a much larger party atmosphere up the other end, with lots of bars stretching out on to the beach. It was still a good walk to go up that end and look at the shops both on the beach and behind it, but we were there to relax, and spend time together.

Leaving pretty much sucked as I knew I'd be going home to an empty flat, leaving Thilde here for 3 more weeks, but at 4.30am, leave I did. The journey back was uneventful, and I crawled into my bed in Copenhagen just under 24 hours later.

I'd definitely go back. I'd love to see Kerala, and somewhere more central/further north. I'd love to see another side of India. I love to more colour, more temples, more elephants, more religion, and eat more food. I have no doubt we'll be going back. Thilde's a huge fan, and my appetite was certainly whet by this short stay. To be perfectly honest, the food alone is worth the visit.

So there you have it. Our trip to India boiled down to a little blog post.

Copenhagen to San Francisco

2012-03-27T15:12:12Z

I’m in need of a home exchange in July, and thought I might see how far a blog post gets me. You never know.

If you know of anyone who might be interested, do me a favour and send them this link, would you? I’ll be sending buckets of karma your way (alternatively you can send them the link to Home Exchange).

The deal is this. My wife (Danish) and I (English) and a friend (Danish) are going to San Francisco from July 14^th to 28^th. We need a 2-bedroom place to stay, in San Francisco. Of course, the more central and close to everything the better, but we are quite capable of taking public transport.

The flat we can offer you in exchange is a 130m² loft flat, with wooden floors, white walls and all the other obligatory Scandinavian things, rounded off with a nice English touch (this means pointless objects scattered here and there). It can sleep up to 6, but it’s probably more comfortable for 2 or 4; a couple or a young family.

It has a balcony that comes off the kitchen, which gets sun until about 4pm, and when that’s gone, you can just mosey up the stairs to the rooftop terrace which, although shared, is practically private as no one else can be bothered to hike all the way up to the top of the building (there is no lift). The views are spectacular, so spectacular in fact that we held our wedding reception up there.

It has all the things you’d want; dishwasher, washing machine, gas oven, TV, stereo, wireless – you name it.

It’s situated in Vesterbro, which is one of the 6 main districts of Copenhagen. The area is made up of 30-somethings, and young families, making it a youthful yet not too youthful area. There are enough bars, restaurants and cafés to make you sick, not to mention the proximity to parks and an open harbour pool (Copenhagen’s harbour water is so clean you can swim in it, so they built pools directly into the harbour). The flat is in an old hotel at the end of a dead-end street, which means no through traffic. At one end of the street is an ‘s-train’ station (underground/overground light railway) which takes you all over Copenhagen, and a bus stop. At the other end is a huge dual carriage way which was closed off many years ago, so only a smattering of cars use it. The central reservation has been turned into a kind of park, with basketball courts, ping-pong tables, a children’s play area, and lots of grass where you can sit, eat pizza and drink beers until the cows come home.

It’s about 10 minutes walk to the main train station (the airport is 10 minutes train ride from there), and 15 minutes to the City Hall (famous from The Killing), and to the main shopping street.

There’s not much not to like about it really.

Copenhagen is of course a wonderful, wonderful city. There’s even a song about it that goes something like that. Full of beautiful design, architecture and people, and with a café culture to make Parisians green with envy, it’s a city for all kinds of people. I’ve always thought of it as London stuffed into a town. It has the vibe of a much larger city, but is cosy enough to make you feel like you know it all.

I could go on and on about it, but I won’t. I will add though that London and Berlin are just 90 minutes away by plane (and cheap too, what with EasyJet, Norwegian and Air Berlin), and Sweden is just a 30 minute bus ride away.

That’s it for now. If you’re interested, drop me a mail at lara.mulady@gmail.com, and let’s see if we can work something out.

Summerhouse Bliss

2011-11-18T16:38:13Z

Last weekend we went off to a friend's summerhouse for the weekend. Summerhouses are funny things. I suppose in the UK they'd be known as 'holiday cottages' or something, but they're essentially a house you use in the summer for long weekends, holidays, and general relaxing. Some people have massive mansion-type summerhouses, which in my opinion, defeats the purpose. There should be dust, a musty smell, a wood burning stove, and clear evidence of multiple different family staying there over a long period of time.

Anway. So off we went. It was lovely. Lazy days, lots of chocolate, bad TV, duvets on sofas and long walks on a chilly beach. These weekends work wonders. I highly recommend it. Here are some photos. Oddly enough we didn't take any photos of the house. Not sure why, it was beautiful.

The ultimate sports headphones

2011-08-30T18:05:51Z

Just so you know, if you're looking for a pair of headphones that will stay in your ears no matter how much you sweat, now matter how much you run, and no matter how many times you bend over, jump up and down, or jerk back and forth, you could do a lot worse than the Sennheiser/Adidas CX 680. They are, without a doubt, the best I've ever used. And I've been through a few.

Why I love French & Saunders

2011-08-22T08:34:04Z

I'm working from home today, and to keep me company I'm listening to the recent wedding playlist that we all danced to one day in July.

When Mamas & Papas came on with Creeque Alley, I turned it up loud, sang along, and then went to post the video to Facebook because, well, sharing and all that jazz. I found it on YouTube, and realised, once again, just how brilliant French & Saunders were (apologies for the terrible sound on the French & Saunders clip. It was the only one I could find).

Bagpipes, booze and oil drums

2011-08-05T18:35:31Z

And so to the UK for the next installment. Mostly photos once again, and as before, more on demand.

The week before the big party was spent organising, tidying, cleaning, putting up tents, and sorting out bits and bobs. It was a busy week, but so good to finally be able to actually get invoved in the making of the party instead of emailing back and forth.

My parents were major forces in this wedding. There's no way we could have done this without them. The short of the long is that we had in our minds what we wanted, and kept spamming poor Dr & Mrs Mulady with endless emails asking them if they could look at this, or that, or drive here and look at this tent, or that tent. And they did. Over and over again. When they suggested things and we said no, they accepted it without a struggle, but kept on suggesting. I'm surprised they still like us.

We weren't quite so lucky with the weather as we were in Copenhagen, so the canapes and drinks had to be moved inside, which, as it turns out, worked just fine. Besides, it forced people to mingle - something that wouldn't have happened if we had had it outside. As friends and family began to fill up the house, Thilde and I were upstairs being made up by Morten once more, and our UK photographer, a girl I met in London, Holly Falconer, ran around taking photos.

Dr & Mrs watch as we nervously come down the stairs to be greeted by about 50 people.

"Er, hello everyone."

As the rain began to clear, we all made our way outside for one last glass of champagne before the ceremony. My dear uncle had dusted off his bagpipes for the occasion, something which touched and thrilled me. I had always, always wanted him to play on my wedding day, and once he stopped playing, I secretly knew I had to come to terms with the fact that I'd have to have a pipeless day. I was a bit concerned about what the wife thought but it turns out she was game (good woman). The plan was to do the ceremony in a tent with the sides rolled up, but due to the fine English weather, we had to have the sides down. However, once again this turned out to be a blessing in disguise as people were forced to snuggle up next to each other on hay bales, as we stuffed close to 50 people in one tent. It worked perfectly.

Unforgettable speeches were held, many, many tears were shed, some serious belly laughter rolled around, and after close to two hours of speechs, including one 3 page (A4) poem memorised by my Dad, we emerged from the tent to find the rain fully stopped, and even patches of blue sky peeking through.

People drank, photos were taken, and we wandered down the garden towards the barn for more booze, BBQ, and dancing.

The food, BBQ, was put on by The Secret Restaurant, and was spectacular.

For pudding there was ice-cream - lots of it - from Cole & Sons, cycled in on a splendid tricycle. He even had Flakes.

We ate off fantastic vintage china from Pearl Grey, and our (whopping) cake was made by Choccywoccydodah. We seriously, seriously underestimated the size. It was huge. And delicious.

The dancing was kicked off with the traditional Danish wedding waltz, and followed by a Scottish Ceilidh band, getting everyone on the floor for a few rounds of Gay Gordon and Strip the Williow. There wasn't a sad face in the house.

We cut the cake after the dancing, and then went on, and on, and on. Whisky arrived, which saw off a fair number, but many stayed and were rewarded with fish and chips at around midnight.

Finally, after people peeled off one by one, Thilde and I turned off the lights, closed the barn, and walked back up to the house. It was the other best day of my life. Walking back up to the house, tipsy, tired and a little taken aback, we finally had a moment to ourselves. It was our dream day, of that there is no doubt. I'm the luckiest girl alive.

I do

2011-08-05T17:38:02Z

Yup. I bit the big one. No, wait, that's the other thing. Well to some it might seem the same, but not to me, not in the least. My wedding was - and I will say this myself - absolutely, totally and utterly, mind blowingly fantastic.

I will try and sum them (yes, them) up here, but this is the third, if not the fourth time I've tried it, so this time I've decided to cut it down a lot, and instead rely a lot more on photos.

On July 9th, I said 'I do' (actually I said 'ja' which means 'yes' in Danish) to my lovely, lovely girlfriend. We'd been engaged for just under a year, and had been planning it since about January. We had decided to get married in Copenhagen, have a small reception at our flat (we are lucky enough to have a roof-top terrace), have a small dinner for family and that would be it. The main party would be held the next weekend in the UK, at my parent's house in East Sussex. There, we'd have a ceremony so that it wasn't 'just' a big party. The ceremony was to be all the speeches that would normally be given during the meal, that way, when we did sit down to eat, we could do precisely that. After the ceremony, there would be the usual photos, and then a big old BBQ, cooked over halved oil drums (a fantasy of mine since childhood).

All of this we did, and we did it well.

Copenhagen was incredible.

From the design help for our website and invitation (below) from the sweet and talented Trine Falbe, our engagement shoot with the fantastic Amanda Thomsen, the kind words from Ayfar Baykal as she married us, getting our booze directly from Mother restaurant's supplier, our cupcakes from Agne's Cupcakes, having our hair and make-up done by our lovely friend Morten from Ladefogeddahl, and spending the long, warm, afternoon on the rooftop terrace - our wedding day was truly something remarkable and unforgettable (don't puke, it really was).

We were incredibly lucky to find Amanda Thomsen, a brilliant photographer who knew exactly what we wanted, and wanted to shoot more photos like that herself. After a great meeting with her, we decided upon an 'engagement shoot' so we could get to know each other, and be able to appear relaxed in front of the camera on the big day. The engagement shoot went perfectly. If you want to see a bit more, the shoot appeared on über cool wedding blog, Pretty Chic Blog which features modern Scandinavian weddings.

I won't bore you with all the photos.

We prepared at the flat, with my Mum and Dad and Uncle Ian and Auntie Ann over for family support.

Copenhagen City Hall is rather special. A beautiful building inside and out. We were lucky enough to be able to use the Council Chambers as opposed to the usual registry due to the fact that we had Ayfar at our side. We left, exhilarated.

Once we left the City Hall, as wife 'n' wife, I cycled the missus back to our flat. Our friends followed, on bikes or on foot, and we met back at the flat, where a kind ex-colleague of mind had agreed to help out by arranging the food and booze ready for our arrival.

The top of our building never looked as good as it did on that day. Full of those we loved and cared for, covered in bunting, corks popping and cupcakes slowly melting in the afternoon heat. It was just marvellous.

This is all I'm going to write about it. There's no need to go into more detail, and if you'd like to see more pictures, then you'll have to ask.

(Update) Or you can look here as our wedding got on the rocking blog, Rock n' Roll Bride!

(Update) It's now also featured on Pretty Chic Blog together with our engagement shoot!

It was, surprisingly (in all seriousness) one of the best days of my life. The other, was just around the corner.

I never thought getting married would be so spectacular. It might have been the booze, but as I stood in the sun, family and friends around me, and my one-and-only by my side, I felt invincible. Life? Whatever. I had it sorted. Bring it on.

The Almighty Glastonbury Festival

2011-06-29T10:41:32Z

Another Glastonbury down, and another head full of mixed feelings. Inside me there is a massive blog post, and I'm going to try to get it out here. I can't promise it won't be rambling.

The famous flags.

As some of you may know, 2010 was my first Glastonbury. It was a scorcher. 33 degress (hotter than Rio, we were told. Constantly). I left browned, dusted, and dazed, with a desperate need of a bed, shower, and silence. To be honest, when I left, I was glad. I needed to get away. I had arrived on the Friday and was quite literally thrown into this heaving mass of 177,000 people - it was madness. I had totally underestimated the size of the festival and what it actually was.

Glastonbury is not a music festival. It is, as it says, a festival of contemporary performing arts, which means that while there is an awful lot of music, there are also a thousand and one other things to see and do, from sculptures to yoga, to workshops to circus tents. There's no way on earth you can do this all in a weekend, and hardly any chance you can do it all from Wednesday morning to Monday morning. Certainly not if it takes you 5 hours to get through the gate.

Yes, while my first Glastonbury was last year, this year was my first Glastonbury. Oh, the mud. The mud, the mud, the mud.

One of the many rivers of mud.

After queuing in the car for coming on 2 hours (not bad!), I parked the car and dutifully joined the queue, which was already a good 90 metres long. It had rained heavily that morning (not to mention the previous days) so the ground was already good and wet, and when it started to rain again, I realised that I had managed to pack my sleeping bag on the outside of my rucksack. I don't know why. I scrambled for my anorak, wrapped it around it, and then managed to find my other rain poncho thing, throwing it over both me and my rucksack. It didn't stop raining, and we didn't move.

For 3 hours.

Over this 3 hours, my energy levels just dropped completely. Sinking slowly into mud, with the rain beginning to trickle down my neck, I was just starting to wonder if it was all really worth it when we began to stumble forward. Over the next hour, we covered the 90 metres. By midday, the couple behind me began to discuss what was going on.

Last year, said hubby, they had left home at the same time, yet by noon they were pitched, unpacked, had had a picnic, and were watching the England game (World Cup - what a joke) that started at 12. What on earth was going on this year? As we found out the next day, 110,000 people had decided to, ahem, 'skip the queue' and arrive early. Speaking to someone else on the Sunday, I found out he had arrived at 6pm on Wednesday, driven straight in, and not had a soul to queue behind for the gates. Dammit. Damn him.

So, 4 hours later, still standing in foot-deep mud, we finally got to the gate only to find another 15 minute walk, this time up a hill, in mud getting ever slushier and ever deeper. People who had brought wheelbarrows or trolleys were screwed. I had my big rucksack, a small rucksack, and a plastic bag with 16 cans of John Smiths in it. That's quite a weight, let me tell you, especially when you can put anything down because you managed to pack your sleeping bag on the outside. As I awkwardly swapped my bags front to back and side to side as my back muscles began to cave, and the plastic bag cut into my fingers, I looked around at my fellow fesitval goers, and their sorry faces. It was like something out of World at War. A sorry bunch, with ponchos over bags giving us abnormal humpbacks, steady streams of rain running off noses, mud up to our knees, cigarettes hanging out of mouths and overall enthusiasm dying rapidly. Some people were knocking back the booze - in hindsight, I probably should have done the same and lightened my load, not to mention my mind.

There we stood for another 45 minutes before finally being let in to the turnstyles. Once through, the race was on to find a decent spot. Of course, most of the good places had been taken (a huge number of people had slept in their cars on the Tuesday night), so after a good mile long walk, I found a field virtually empty, and threw down my bags. It had, thankfully, stopped raining, and there was actual grass in this field - for now. I had only eaten a sausage roll since 5.50am, and in a fit of desperation, I opened a beer. It was good.

I was in.

View from my tent on Thursday morning. Rain and grass. One of these was to stay.

The odd thing about Glastonbury is that I seem to always leave with a sense of relief, only for the nostalgia to hit me just an hour or so later. It has to be experienced to be understood - there's no way any amout of writing can ever do it justice. It's just so massive, and I don't just mean in size. The impact, the emotions, the people - everything.

A wedding.

It's a place, as my brother so rightly put it, that can make you realise that it's not you who's got things wrong, it's the world. It's a pop-up city of 177,000 people, filled with alcohol, and yes, drugs, but where there is no violence. No fights. People live and let live. You have to leave your outside self at the gate (if you ever get there) and enter with absolutely no judgement, no preconceptions and no ideals. My greatest piece of advice would be to give up on contorl - let it control you. You have no idea where you'll be come 2am.

That's one thing I realised after last year. I had far too many bands I wanted to see, and saw it purely as a music event.

How wrong I was. I have had to, and will still have to, learn what I want from the festival. This year, I chose a select few bands (ultimately, a very wise decision given that the mud mad it impossible to get anywhere quickly), and then promised myself I would just wander, and get lost. Those bands I saw were (in no particular order);

Kitty, Daisy & Lewis (one of my highlights)
Anna Calvi (another highlight)
U2 (great to hear the hits, but somehow not amazing)
Warpaint
Fleet Foxes (beautiful)
Mumford & Sons (better suited to smaller venues but made me cry. Again)
Beardyman (genius)
Janelle Monae
Pulp
Aloe Blacc
Chemical Brothers (a trip)
Laura Marling (beautiful)
Paul Simon
Robyn

U2 in the rain.

Not that many, but more than enough. I was sad to have missed The Secret Sisters, and also missed a surprise appearance from Radiohead (although 60,000 others didn't), but other than that - I was happy.

It was, as might be clear by now, the mud that really left an indelible mark on my trip. The trip from the tent wasn't so bad - all downhill. The way back, on the other hand, now that was something else. The length of the surrounding fence is 8 miles (almost 13 km), so you can imagine the kind of trips you have to make. Even just for a bacon butty. Each step pushes more mud up your boots, which then in turns sticks more mud to it, pushing it further up, and so on, and on. I wish I had a way of weighing my boots just to see how much I was lifting with each step. On the plus side, any guilt about eating festival food (my low point was Wotsits for breakfast) vanished. I think I lost weight.

As so many have said, this is what festivals are like. I got lucky last year, and experienced the other end of the spectrum this year. I'm glad I did - honestly I am. After all, while the mud might be depressingly thick and oppressive, rain is only rain, and after 10 hours of it on Friday night, even though the rain had soaked through my anorak, my army surplus jumper, two t-shirts, a vest and my bra - I couldn't care less. Dancing to Dizzee Rascal with a pint of lemon cider in a churned up field was probably a flashing highlight - looking up to see that no one cares. We're having fun; let it bloody rain.

Queuing for toilets in the rain.

Of course the sun did come out - twice, in fact. Once on Thursday afternoon, which lasted until Friday noon-ish, and then again Saturday afternoon, lasting until the end of the festival. It got hot, which was nice, and dried up the mud, which was a blessing.

Looking out over the site.

Polished paths cut through the drying mud on Saturday.

Once again, despite all the mud, I was struck by the differences between Glastonbury and my other festival experience, Roskilde Festival in Denmark. Granted, they're hugely different in terms of size, which of course leads to a number of immediate differences. There are two things though which I thought I'd mention.

Roskilde's camping system is cool. It's one hell of a lot easier to navigate. See photos below.

Compared to

I know that size is an issue, but having the area block style á la Roskilde keeps things simple, and safe.

The other thing is something I think Roskilde should learn from Glastonbury. The peeing. At Roskilde, you can be sure to see at least....20 different willies. Probably more. You'll also see a lot of girls randomly squatting for a quick wee. The place stinks of piss. Reeks. It's absolutely disgusing. Whatever you do, do not sit against a tree at Roskilde. Glastonbury has a strict no-peeing policy. There are signs all over the place, and people will give you grief if you try to pee in a hedge. Not only that, but they also have their own Green Police. The Green Police are there to make sure people treat the grounds with respect. Peeing polutes, it's as simple as that. I wish I had actual footage of someone people caught (we saw someone this year - it was brilliant), but this is what I could find on YouTube.

The idea is (as it stated in the Glastonbury guide) to humiliate you into not doing it again. It's brilliant. Roskilde - learn!

But enough comparing. As I've stated before; it's impossible.

Glastonbury left me exhausted, both physically and mentally. My muscles ache, my head is full, I have a cold, it cost a lot of money, I had to queue for absolutely everything, I sat in multiple people's pee and probably a bit of poo too, and I stood for almost 60 hours over 5 days. It's a monumental effort.

Will I be back? You bet your arse I will. Wife in tow.

See you in 2013.

John Smiths, crisps and wellies.

Glastonbury campsite photo taken from photoblog.
Roskilde campsite photo taken from x.dk.
River of mud photo is taken from Glastonbury's site.