It's the university holidays and you're standing in a very long queue in a very cold field in the very early morning. The sky, which had seemed so promising an hour ago, has turned a muddy grey, and finally breaks. A cry of despair rings out from the crowds as the rain pours down, churning the field into a brown paste. Waterproof coats are hurriedly pulled from rucksacks and you huddle together under an umbrella offered to you by your queue-neighbour.
"Welcome to Glastonbury," you mutter grimly to yourself.
"First time?" your neighbour, a man in his fourties, asks with a smile. You nod. It's his 15th Glastonbury, he tells you proudly. Then he introduces you to his daughter. She is ten years old, stands knee deep in the mud at his feet, and looks up at you as she drains the last dregs from a can of beer. She tosses it away and cracks open another.
"Uh. Should she be drinking that?" Her father just gives you an enigmatic wink.
The queue moves, the countless people dragging themselves and their overladen carts filled with alcohol through the sticky mud towards the entrance. Glancing up and down the line, you're aware a strange abundance of children for a music festival. Only hours later, as you finally stumble weary and muddy to the entry gates, do you figure out why.
"'Under 12s get in free'," you read aloud from a sign. "Sneaky gits. Why didn't we think of that?."
"Because you're a moron," a muffled, tortured voice comes from your-
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