For anyone who was lucky enough to be a teenager throughout the late nineties and early noughties, the Reading and Leeds festivals become synonymous with the ultimate in boozy, naughty, heady summer decadence. Not as pretentious as Glastonbury, musically superior to Global Gathering and universally approved of by parents (nobody knows why; perhaps the locations?), Reading and Leeds are fondly remembered by most twentysomethings for being their first festival.
However, anyone who’s been to both will be able to tell you the difference immediately. Reading’s the teenage haven; hordes of well-spoken teens dominate the arena and drink cups of wine they smuggled in from home. If you went as a school-leaver, you saw at least ten people you knew within 15 minutes of entering the campsite. The atmosphere could be, at times, hugely irritating. I seem to remember 2002 being dominated by people shouting ‘Timmy!’ and bragging about the bands they were planning to try to meet. (Yeah, right! Saying that, I did meet a girl there who fellated Twiggy Ramirez. She seemed nice.) Nothing could be further away from what you experience at Leeds, the sophisticated elder sister of bumbling, oveconfident Reading.
Maybe it’s the festivals’ longevity (the first combined event was held in 1999), but the sparsely-populated Leeds Festival website suggests that most visitors will be after just one thing. It’s pretty much just about the music; there’s no information about showers, toilets, organic food, or where to buy elderflower cordial. But that’s fair enough – the headliners are always of a consistently-high quality; this year The Foo Fighters, Kasabian, The Cure and Leeds’s very own Kaiser Chiefs will take to the Main Stage. This isn’t the place to come for a relaxed weekend of lounging and aimless wandering. You’ll probably get shouted at if you wear flowers in your hair. From what I remember (I went in 2003, at the height of Linkin Park’s fame), Leeds was lawless. There were no well-groomed gangs of well-polished teens here, snootily ordering falafel. From what I remember, and I hope it hasn’t changed, you live much like a savage. You don’t eat much, and you don’t sleep much. You piss on your feet by accident, and you have a brilliant time doing it. On my last night, I overlooked the hill where I was camped. Oil drums were being used to contain spitting bonfires, and then pushed down the muddy walkways. People shrieked as the drums barrelled towards them. I took off my polyester hiking top and hoped for the best.
I don’t remember being hungry, but I do recall tiring of the expense of arena-fodder. Eating’s a no-brainer; I reckon you’re better off getting your hands on a camping stove and taking care of yourself. There are no sweet little boutiques here offering tea or cake. It’s burgers, sausages, fizzy drinks and beer – the most basic foodstuffs you need to avoid fainting, and the best things to thicken your sick.
The festival organisers have been remarkably clever at organising their event for the August Bank Holiday (this year, it’s being held on the 24th – 26th August). Not only is there an extra day to recover, so people go extra bonkers, but they recognise that the summer’s almost over. The Leeds festival is, for all intents and purposes, a lot of people’s summer swan song – a final party before the cold weather ruins all our fun.
I’m looking forward to returning. I don’t think I’m any less wild than my cackling 18-year-old self; I hope that Leeds is still a hotpot of fun-loving, good-natured drunk people looking for the best time humanly possible. Unlike Reading, which will always have that faint air of posh-girl-gone-mad, Leeds always seemed to me to be the more exciting venue. It’s dirty and noisy, and wet wipes won’t shift the muck, but it’s unpretentious and exciting. I’d even go so far to call it raw, but that might be taking things a bit far. After all, there’s a Harvey Nicholls 12 miles away.
For more Leeds Festival info and tickets, click here. For Reading Festival, click here.
