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Ed Says. . . Does the end of the UK’s summer spell doom for festivals?

Author's Note: This was written yesterday, when the skies decided to deposit their contents upon my head on my way to, and from, the office.

Once again, I have been absolutely drenched during my commute into ABoF HQ. I wouldn't usually mind, but it's only just September and I can barely remember a day in August when I wasn't soaked from head to toe by the time I arrived at the office.

So, where the hell has summer gone this year? We had yet another God awful winter this year, and the only thing that consoled the populace while the UK's public transport system imploded in a plume of it's own unpreparedness was the old wives' adage - "you know what they say: cold winter, hot summer". Well, that just hasn't happened. And I want my summer back.

If this trend carries on, I am at a complete loss as to what's going to happen to this country's festivals. We all expect a bit of rain come festival season, but this summer has been different - rain's one thing, but when it's bloody freezing and all you have to protect you from the elements is a thin sheet of canvas, and a waterlogged sleeping bag, you're soon going to see droves of people upping sticks, sick of it all, and packed up on the first train back to civilisation.

I remember the first time Bestival was washed out - a storm hit the Isle of Wight in September 2008, making camping for the missus and me a complete and utter impossibility. We'd just bought a massive tent, after spending the last two years festival hopping in our trusty two person pop up. Well, we arrived off the ferry to massive winds, and dark and ominous skies. The rumour mill was already in full force; tales had been trickling out of the campsite that the rain had been so abundant, whole villages of tents had started gradually sliding down Robin Hill to be deposited in the bowl of the festival, contents spoiled and covered in mud. Determined not to be put off, we decided to abandon the camping idea (the prospect of setting up a massive 4 person tent in high winds and torrential rain didn't fill us with glee), and hole up in a bed and breakfast.

Unfortunately, we weren't the only people to come up with this groundbreaking idea, and spent the best part of 6 hours trawling the island for an available room before settling on an "unofficial" B and B that was in the process of refurbishment. With a dry place to sleep sorted, we made our way down to the festival. Several spills in the mud, too many mojitos, and several torrential downpours later, we decided to cut our losses and run. It was impossible to get inside any of the tented stage arenas to see the bands we wanted to see, and the outside main stage became more of an endurance test than anything else.

We made our way back to the mainland, with dozens of other fed up festivalgoers in search of central heating and dry clothes. We may have missed The Breeders, The Specials reforming, and what was supposedly an amazing set from George Clinton, but we didn't die from pneumonia. Which is always a positive.
Anyway - I'm cold, wet and fed up (which you may have figured by now). I'm off to sit by a radiator to dry myself out and steel myself for the long, cold and damp journey home.

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