Six years after declaring the festival his idea of hell, the columnist finally had his arm twisted. What unfolded was a weekend of shock, confusion, throbbing testicles – and unbridled joy

I thought I would never go to Glastonbury, and that was fine with me. Six years ago, I wrote about how it was my idea of hell, my event 101. Ever since then, for reasons known only to themselves, my Guardian handlers have been badgering me to come. They wore me down. They got me to Glastonbury.

What was my problem? Well, while I knew I would love a lot of the music, there are some creature comforts I won’t be without. Nothing fancy – my personal hygiene bar is rather low; going without a shower for a few days holds no fear for me. All I insist upon is a clean bog and a bed on which to sleep, neither of which are easy to find at Worthy Farm.