V Festival 2005 – A Stag Weekend in a Field

 

“Sorry, but I’m absolutely cunted.”

So began V Festival 2005, with Andy Fatman accidentally phoning his mother instead of his wife-to-be and announcing his condition in the most Fatman way possible. She might not have known what the word meant, but she knew exactly what he was. And fair play – Fatman had every right to be ruined. Virgin’s Branson Regime had thoughtfully organised this year’s V as his stag do (or maybe it was to rake in £18 million in gate receipts). Either way, it worked.

We descended en masse: myself (Neil Crud), The Secretary, Steve Sync, Fairziff, Trevski, Jules, Stack, Pauline, Will, Pippa, Gaz, Jess, Richard, Joyce, Graham, Linda, Gareth, and a few more who melted into the blur. Arriving early Friday, Fatman upset the neighbours by claiming an oak tree as his own and shifting a few tents to establish “The Stag Tree Village.” Stack’s chemical toilet spared the ladies the horrors of festival latrines, while Fatman stocked up on his annual Imodium-and-bananas diet to avoid shitting until midweek.

Friday Night – Cans, Barriers, and Volvic Branding

Friday night is for drinking, not bands. By 3pm our 48-cans-each strategy was in full swing. The V rules forbid booze in the arena, but Andy Fatman was determined to cheat the system. His first attempt went spectacularly wrong: stumbling in his “cunted state,” he brought down an entire barrier and exposed his contraband to security, who pounced screaming, “He’s got cans!” No shame in that – but every other time he sauntered through, sometimes with ten Carlings stashed about his person. Legend.

Inside, we hit the corporate-branded Volvic Tent (remember when festivals weren’t full of bottled-water sponsorship?). A few years earlier it would’ve been all hoodies, whistles, and thumping house, but 2005 was the year guitars reclaimed the dancefloor. Instead of “bang bang bang,” we had 5,000 voices belting I Predict A Riot and Roll With It. Indie was king. House was dead.

Saturday – Bands, Booze, and Prodigy Firestarters

Stag weekend rules dictate: wake up hungover, crack open a can at 6am, repeat. By Carling No.4, Fatman was crafting a cardboard drumkit for Gaz while boasting he had “red wine, wet wipes, and Rohypnol in case he got lucky” (Abi Titmuss being his highly questionable target).

Musically, we swerved the main stage (“Rooster can suck my corporate cock,” declared Fatman) and made for the Channel 4 tent. No Hope For New Jersey claimed to be the saviours of rock ’n’ roll – perhaps a touch optimistic. El Presidente followed, and their Bryan Ferry–styled frontman and infectious glam-funk hooks had the tent bouncing. A surprise highlight.

The Frames provided a lull – my notes from then include gems like “Andy needs a wank on his own shit” and “Old women’s witch tits.” Blame the cider. The Ordinary Boys passed me out completely, though Fatman thought they were “fucking ace.”

The night belonged to The Prodigy. Tens of thousands packed in for Keith Flint’s return. Firestarter lit up with a flare in the crowd, and the whole field convulsed. Punk energy fully restored.

Sunday – From Goldie Looking Chain to Oasis (Yawn)

The Stands opened Sunday with a typical Scouse Zanzibar sound – all Beatles echoes and Zutons cameos. Then came Goldie Looking Chain, safe-as-fuck dole wallers from South Wales, shouting about “No Win No Fee” and batter-based sexcapades. Comedy genius.

Elsewhere, Good Charlotte tried their best – Sync thought they were “a breath of fresh air” before revising his opinion to “spleen-churningly average.” The Bravery split the camp (“Duran Duran from New York” vs. “total ROCK show”), while Kaiser Chiefs proved why I Predict A Riot was the anthem of the year.

By contrast, The Streets fell flat (“a poor man’s Goldie Looking Chain”), and when Oasis ambled onstage, even Cigarettes & Alcohol couldn’t hide the fact that the Gallaghers looked bored stiff. We bailed for The Chemical Brothers – impressive beats, but watching two blokes press play hardly screamed “live.”

True salvation came in the form of Robert Plant, striding through Gallows Pole like the legend he is. A brief, glorious moment of history amidst the corporate indie gloss.

Mud, Piss, and Stag-Do Glory

As the heavens opened, washing 60,000 gallons of accumulated piss across the site, even our mighty oak tree surrendered. Tents collapsed, cans floated, and we drowned in lager, mud, and laughter.

V Festival 2005 was bloated, oversold, and corporate as hell. But it was also a stag do, a reunion, a drunken circus of smuggled Carling and rock ’n’ roll chaos. Fatman wouldn’t have had it any other way.