Joseph Theobald aka DJ Captain Wormhole looks at all things vinyl

IT’S nearly British summertime and that means festivals, loads and loads of festivals.

Social media users rejoice, the political vitriol clogging up your timelines will soon be supplanted by wavey hedonistic self-gratification. Thousands upon thousands of images of glitter encrusted young people prancing around fields in England, a crusty grime-ridden coral reef of narcotized Montipora. Seventy-two glorious hours away from the hotdesk on Pipers Way.

I’ve been to a few festivals over the years and when the sun is shining and the music is booming they’re quite fun.

You get to smoke while you dance which is always nice, and most of the time people are exceptionally friendly; dancefloor conversations strike up like bushfires in southern Australia, the faintest spark of a clipper and you’ve captured another 12hr BFF binge-buddy.

However, as ever, in the interest of balance and fairness, I must point out a few personal foibles that scratch away at my enthusiasm for paying hundreds of pounds to sleep in a tent in England.

I’ll not dwell on the obvious stuff like the overpriced food and plastic fecal boxes (AA Gill already completed festival toileting – see his Glastonbury piece for British GQ).

Firstly, (and also well covered by Gill) there’s the hordes of hippies. Hairy folk who play fast and loose with personal hygiene.

I’ve long harboured a regrettable, deep-seeded aversion to this particular tribe (that night at Avebury not withstanding). This uncharacteristic social intolerance is largely attributable to wholesale misuse of the word ‘energy’. And Caucasian dreadlocks.

Secondly, Carling tents.

Thirdly, always losing things. The first time I went to a festival was Global Gathering in 2007 — I lost my phone. The last time I went to one was a few years ago for Love Saves The Day and I lost my car key. Coincidence? I think not.