In the interests of fair and balanced reporting, your correspondent ought to point out that, after a fashion, he DID have a brilliant time as a result of attending the 1998 Glastonbury. After a miserable day of trudging around in the mud, cold and wet, and not seeing any bands, your reporter set out for home on the Friday night, having by sheer miraculous luck managed to locate his car in the unmarked acres of car parking. In a piece of practically accidental foresight for which I still give thanks, I'd luckily stashed a clean jumper, pair of jeans and shoes in the car, and after some complex gymnastics effecting a complete change of clothing in a tiny two-seater sports car without putting a foot on the soaking, filthy ground outside, I was already in a state somewhere close to ecstasy just through having some dry clobber on.

The unpleasant experience of actually getting out of the festival (as detailed in the Melody Maker letter) dampened my good spirits only a little, and by the time I was actually heading back in the right direction towards my home in Bath, with some great tunes booming out of the car stereo and secure in the knowledge that I'd never have to see the fetid hippy-infested swamp again, my heart was flying. I can honestly say that there are but a handful of occasions in my life that I've experienced such pure, dizzying joy as I did that night, hurtling through deserted hamlets at deliriously reckless speeds at 2am until I reached the bliss of my own warm, dry home with its hot water, bath, comfy bed and telly. For the rest of the weekend, watching the festival on telly (a great view, perfect sound, fridge and snacks mere feet away and big soft beanbags to recline on) was made all the more enjoyable by the knowledge of what I wasn't missing. Sometimes, viewers, it takes a horrible trauma to make us fully appreciate our normal everyday lives.

As I lay back watching Spiritualized (and actually, identifiably Spiritualized, not some tiny dots miles away) reach the majestic climax of their set on my big telly, the stars twinkling through my open window, fragrant night air drifting in from the park outside, and a cold drink in my hand, I reflected on the wisdom my £95 ticket investment had bought me, as well as the delight of that Friday evening. In a sense, it was worth every penny. O Happy Day indeed.