Thursday afternoon. I'm in the Blade Runner dystopia that is Milton Keynes waiting for a few friends that are sorting out the car that's gonna take us to sunny Glastonbury. But word's raining in from those who got there last night that it's wet and slippy and with an influx of 150,000 bods about to trample the ground into a quagmire things ain't looking good. We (the MK drugs syndicate) ponder on the possibility of staying at home and watching Glasto in its waterproof BBC2 version. It's a bit of an awkward should-we-stay-or-should-we-go moment but then we remember the umbrella of pharmaceuticals we've got for cover; Billy, Charlie, you know the sort of thing.

First place of refuge was found in the realms on skunk, mind. Although a Vauxhall Nova's not the best car in the world to skin up in, specially when it's rammed to the sun-roof with backpacks. Commenced to smoke nigh on an eighth of skunk between four of us. Battered beyond comprehension we sailed through the early hours of a Somerset mist. Rendered almost immobile through the caning session we arrive at the fest. at about 2am and consider doing half a biscuit each to liven things up but sack the idea and stoically trudge through the sludge in search of a freebee fence hopping entrance. The rain's stopped but me mud-laden trainers feel a good 15 pounds heavier than a Marshall amp; a very fucking big Leftfield compatible amp at that. We must have walked a mile or so before we could find a wall hopping space that had no god damn queue! We got a good deal mind, 5 squid to walk through a prized opening in the fence. Bonus!

Friday morning. Heading towards the Rizla Tent with a falafel in one hand and a spliff (surprise there then) in t'other and the drying mud under foot is reaching wood glue texture. I've totally had it with this fucking lagoon of a festival so I bomb a half a disco biscuit and then find myself talking gibberish to Pork Recording's Beige as he's organising his vinyls and checking out his playlist pecking order for that night. He's on before the mighty techno stomper David Holmes no less. Pork (purveyors of all things chilled) versus Holmes, holy shite that's like Café Del Mar hosting a Megadeath convention. As it happens it's nothing of the sort as Holmes' hard acid techno is not part of the show. DH plays a set of 50s Northern Soul in a tent that's only a tad bigger than my 3 berth. This is different, man, well it's fucking down-right surreal innit.

NME reported similarly surreal events going off in the Dance Tent guest area with Fatboy Slim doing an 'impromptu' 50s soul set to 100 or so VIPs. Oh, yeah, like that's totally in the spirit of Glasto. doing a free gig for managers, agents and the press, no hidden agenda there, I'm sure! Okay, the Fatboy was on Saturday night, let's back-que it to Friday at the Dance Tent. The sun's come out (in the Dance Tent, eh?), the mud's a fading memory and Techno hippie chancers Manchild are bouncing their dreadlocks and crusty paraboots to a hard trance groove. Pretty good tunes but the band are like a Rage Against The Machine without the er…well, rage. No worries, my third pill's kicking in as my chattery teeth and jingle-jangle nerves signify that a mind altering ride's on the way. Banco De Gia are next up but I'm more concerned about these strange electric fountains that seem to be pouring out of the speakers behind the stage. At this point, waves of euphoria envelope the dance stage (or so it seems) and I'm off on one for the next four hours and in no sane state to tell you whose playing, what's playing or where it's been played.

Saturday afternoon. Sat in the Stone Circles field in a pissed up, spliffed up haze as four of us just about manage to work out that Dave Clarke played a wicked pounding techno set the previous night but the rest of our collective memory will have to recovered from a crack team of psychoanalyst's at a later date! Too much beer supped on the Saturday and even the sight of the Hare Krishna's causing a human traffic jam around the Stone Circles can't lift our spirits that much, so we score some Billy off a dodgy looking scouser (there are enough scally's here this weekend to fill Anfield) and surprisingly it's the real deal. Wey ey! Back to the dance tent then which wasn't the best move made as we endured Bentley Rhythm Ace trying to convince us that Big Beat is still the cutting edge sound of dance music. The novelty's worn off lads, and wearing funny wigs and doing silly dances won't change that. What's more, by checking out BRA it meant we were missing Death in Vegas, followed by Leftfield on the Other Stage, two dance acts of unquestionable sonic invention. Thing is, it doesn't seem to matter at Glastonbury if you miss this act or catch that one there's just too much good shit going on and a lot of it you just chance on. Like straight after the BRA flop we catch this wicked drum and bass party going off in one of the many unofficial sound system's that boomed out beats into and through the following day.

That following day's Sunday and I'm out to lunch here, off with the fairies, so any attempt at a critical reflection on the music is way beyond me. And anyway, the Glasto 2000 website plugs the fact that the festival's 'more than just music'. Are they referring to the cinema and comedy tents? I think not; it's more of a turn on, tune in and get wankered vibe. We O.D.ed on all three of these and that is basically my Glastonbury Tale. End of story.