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.

V Festival 2003 – Weston Park Review

 

Three days of cider, drunkeness, campervans, and corporate-sponsored madness – welcome to V2003. By now, the Fatman crew, Crud, Sync, Fairziff and assorted hangers-on had festival survival down to a science: arrive early, pitch the tents before the Strongbow takes hold, and dive headfirst into the weekend with no thought for livers or long-term damage.

Friday Night: Warm-Up Mayhem

The festival began the way all good ones do – raiding the fences into the campervan site, hooking up with the Fatman clan and their converted removal vans complete with sound systems, and sinking enough booze to forget which field you’re in. Friday was less about music and more about setting the tone: overindulgence, near-misses (Mrs Fatman narrowly avoided concussion from a falling fence panel), and the first of many late-night parties.

Saturday: Saxophones, Scousers & Strongbow

The Zutons had the honour of opening the NME Stage, proving Liverpool still had a stranglehold on the UK indie scene. Their funky guitar-sax combo divided opinion but “Pressure” hit hard enough to get early heads nodding. The Stands followed with a laid-back Cast-like sound, while The Coral later in the day showed exactly why they’d risen above their peers – effortlessly pulling off their psychedelic shanties to a huge crowd.

Not every blast from the past worked though. James in ’01 had been euphoric, Happy Mondays in ’02 chaotic but fun – this year’s retro slot was Inspiral Carpets, and it was awkward. Like watching your mate’s dad dance at a wedding, the nostalgia curdled fast.

Morcheeba restored some calm with dreamy grooves, while elsewhere Echo & The Bunnymen’s greatest-hits swaggered into the weekend, Mac’s voice still commanding and Will Sergeant’s guitar sharp as ever. For many, that was the real Saturday highlight.

But not for all. While the Red Hot Chili Peppers pulled a suffocating crowd on the main stage – so packed the big screens were the only way to see them – a couple of thousand made the smarter choice. Over on the NME Stage, Underworld delivered the weekend’s true revelation. With lasers slicing the night sky and “King of Snake” rattling bones, Karl Hyde and Rick Smith turned V into a rave cathedral. By the time “Born Slippy” erupted, it was clear: the lucky few who skipped the Chilis had witnessed the set of V2003.

Sunday: Killing Joke & Coldplay Clashes

Sunday started with bleary breakfasts cooked on Fairziff’s trusty VW stove and more cider to wash away the hangovers. Echo & The Bunnymen set the tone with another soaring set, and Damian Rice plus Athlete kept things mellow for those still piecing themselves together.

But the day belonged to Killing Joke. Jaz Coleman stormed onstage in war paint and bone-strewn robes, leading the band through a blistering half-hour that spanned new anthems (“Blood On Your Hands,” “Total Invasion”) and classics like “Wardance” and “Requiem.” It was ferocious, theatrical, and all too short.

Later, Goldfrapp’s lush electronica washed over the dance tent like a dream, while Turin Brakes impressed against the odds with a packed crowd despite Foo Fighters dominating the main stage. Coldplay headlined to the largest audience of the weekend, but not everyone was convinced – some of us slipped away to a nearby bar where the DJ spun Joy Division and The Undertones instead, a far better soundtrack for Coldplay refuseniks.

Feeder closed the NME Stage with a tight, uplifting set that proved them festival headliner material, ending Sunday on a high before the inevitable stumble back to camper parties and more late-night chaos.

Monday: The Hangover Epilogue

By Monday morning Weston Park was a wasteland of litter and broken tents. Bacon butties with chilli sauce softened the blow as the last of the gang packed up, swapping favourite moments and crowning the best festival T-shirt spotted all weekend: “Midgets Make Me Laugh.”

Verdict

V2003 had everything – the highs of Underworld, Echo & The Bunnymen, and Killing Joke; the lows of Inspiral Carpets trying too hard; and the chaos of campervan raves, bungee cages, and Strongbow-fuelled stupidity. It was messy, funny, occasionally transcendent, and above all a reminder of why we keep coming back: for those rare “festival moments” when the music, madness, and mayhem all line up just right.