It was Beachdown over the bank holiday weekend at Devil’s Dyke and, as if I haven’t had enough nights under canvas, I decided to pay a visit. I loved it, despite the rain and the lack of sleep and the fact that I didn’t wash for two days (strangely liberating although I could have done with a clean gusset). I found a corner of a field that was forever England – the England of my youth: acid house, jazz funk and reggae. Hosting oldies and goodies galore, the aptly named Beach Bar had sand in it so while swinging my pants I was giving my legs a good work out. I put my hands in the air and shook them like I just didn’t care. There were a lot of others that looked like they just didn’t care but that could have been the proliferation of magic mushrooms around the joint. Just a few matters to clear up: why don’t gay men go to festivals? if you use the ‘poo in a box’ do you then have to carry it to the toilet to dispose of it or keep it by your pillow where you can presumably look at it from time to time? If the Queen came to festivals, no doubt she would take an anti-poo tablet, thereby enabling her to eat curry, drink beer and take copious amounts of drugs without need of a turn-out.�