I have fond memories of Glastonbury 1997. Or was it 1998? Not surprisingly, I can't remember much, apart from the mud. Oh, hold on, it's all coming back to me now...
Ah yes, Beck's rhinestone Nudie Suit, queueing to file my copy from the only place with an ISDN line on the site (there is no mobile coverage at Glasto, gadge fiends) a conversation with Bobby Gillespie about how rock-n-roll gumboots were, another one with John Peel on how his wife had packed his daughter's boots instead of his and how he'd had to buy a new pair from an enterprising young man who was selling them alongside Es, trips and whizz.
And I remember wrestling with my tent in the evening gloom, and swearing to myself that no amount of fun was worth the heartache of putting up the Nylon Thing That Was To Be My House For The Next Four Days.
When I saw the Morpho tent, I felt sad. Why, laydeez and gennulmen, was this thing not invented a decade ago, when I was young, green and impractical? I would quite happily have forked out $400 (excluding pump) on something made out of booger-green man-made fibres and air. No tent poles, you see. No tent poles, no tripping— over strings, that is—no arguments, no mud leaking into the Nylon House. No hassle. Festival fiends, the future is Morpho.