When the big hoo-hah about the Wolfe Tones at the Electric Picnic blew up a few months ago, I was reminded of something. It all looked familiar: tens of thousands of hip young things packing a festival tent to sing along to a group of hairy has-beens.
Then it came to me. Sometime in the early noughties, before responsibilities and before not sleeping on a mattress was a deal-breaker, I went to Glastonbury. My main memories of the weekend are of trench foot and cider, but also Chas & Dave.
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