Thirty-eight lengths of cable, 22 cups of coffee, 15 bodies,15 sleeping bags, 14 tents, 12 hours of driving, six bottles of Jagermeister and three hours on a boat later. We'd arrived, having left Dublin almost a day earlier, having rounded up the big band, more excited than a bunch of seven-year-olds off on a school tour.  

As soon as the accommodations were erected another three hours later (no boy scouts in the Big Band,) the group took their livers into their hands and went forth into the breach of the vast, debaucherous landscape that is Glastonbury. Twelve hours later - at 3AM, what remained of us, dishevelled and discombobulated reconvened in Shangri La, (a kind of Mad Max meets Fear and Loathing themed village,) the best area to visit after hours. We shared tales of derring do, derring don'ts, rabbit holes, scary vegetables, and Gorillaz.  

We awoke on Saturday in the searing heat and put some of our natural partying instincts to one side to focus on our Saturday and Sunday night shows. We returned to Shangri La's Club Dada stage to play the 3am slot and found 3,000 people there to greet us. It was epic. After some post gig celebrations, including a visit to an after hours "pub" that required its own membership card, we got what sleep we could before the heat became unbearable.  

Sunday was spent watching England crash out of the world cup, DJing at Cube Henge, catching Stevie Wonder and playing our final live show of the weekend in the Dance Village's Pussy Parlure tent. After a short but nonetheless enjoyable gig we headed straight back out on the road, tired, broken but all the better for it. Glastonbury, we love you.    

The local.

Bez's place.

The streets of Shangri-La.