For me 2012 will be remembered as The Year of The Mudfest. The year when Glastonbury took a sabbatical and every other festival got swamped in the disparate deluge instead. Parklife became Swamplife, Cocoon in The Park became Marooned in the Mud, the Isle of White Festival may as well have been held in Atlantis, even the Grand Prix at Silverstone struggled to stop it’s car park sinking. Whilst flip flops were still de rigueur around the beach parties and mega raves on the continent, the festival fashion accessory of the year in Britain this summer has definately been the welly.

The weather in England is not one of the nations best features and British summer’s are rarely that great. But this year Old Blighty has surpassed itself and served up the mother of all shit summers. The summer of 2012 has got to be one of the worst ever; it’s definately the worst I can remember. The rain came down and just kept on coming and coming. Day after day, week after week, in biblical buzz-killing proportions. It was like Margaret Thatcher rose up into the heavens, dropped her bloomers and just let flow from the clouds, pissing on the bonfires and raining on the parades of every fun loving soul in England just to spite the Queen on her jubilee year. Well you know what; Her Majesty literally descended from the heavens accompanied by 007 for the Olympics, and despite the shit weather and shit economy the whole nation partied anyway so f**k you.

Say what you want about the British, you have to admire our capacity to maintain the party spirit even in the harshest of conditions. And whilst our weather can be depressingly awful, somehow it comes up trumps for the big events – Wimbledon survived this year, the Olympics opening ceremony and outdoor events have all been rain free (for now), the rain even held off in rainy Manchester for the first night of the Stone Roses reunion gig  and for two whole weeks in 2002 when we hosted the Commonwealth Games (although it came down with a vengeance for the closing ceremony)!

Some of the sights I’ve seen this year in festival photos would be enough to make lesser nations think that everyone in the UK had truly gone insane; people up to their knees in mud – but still dancing; people sliding through murky brown sludge – but still smiling; people pelted by rainfall – but still drinking! I’m suprised there hasn’t been an epidemic of foot and mouth disease, I really am. I don’t know how many of these crazy bastards just put on a brave face because they’d already paid for their tickets and rip-off booking fee and had no choice but to go whatever the weather, or how many of them were simply out of their mind on drugs and alcohol, all I can say to my fellow fun loving Islanders – I salute you for making the effort, I really do. And if the Gods are kind and just, next summer will be an absolute scorcher, booking fees will be outlawed, and the news about the untimely death of David Guetta in a car accident will turn out not to be a hoax.


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