Hemp dogs
Sunday 12.01am: Glastonbury nick. Correction: wish I was in Glastonbury nick. In fact have been "arrested" by two vigilantes and am in dodgy Alcatraz- style portacabin somewhere on a ley line in Somerset. "We're sick of scum like you," says Nasty Vigilante, pointing at me and Dylan. "That's a bit unfair," says Anna. "We were just trying to attend a festival." Really Nasty Vigilante glares at her. "You were trespassing on private land and that's the sort of thing we've had enough of in these parts."

12.30am: "Look, holding us here is completely against the law," says Anna. "I am a qualified barrister..." Really Nasty Vigilante looks at her sceptically. Anna is wearing wellies and a fluffy pink bra top and has clearly overdone the narcotics on long, traffic-jammed journey up the M3 from London. "It is against the law," he says, sniffily, "to be climbing fences through other people's property on the way to some rave-up." This, unfortunately, gives Nasty Vigilante an idea: "Empty your pockets, the lot of you," he says, suddenly.

1.20am: "What d'you reckon we should do with them, Bob?" says RNV. They have emptied out all our tents, sleeping bags, coats, plastic bags of wellies, toilet rolls, and - sadly - drugs, all over the floor and are looking at the pile of detritus disgustedly. "Let's take them to the copshop," says "Bob", the Nasty Vigilante. RNV - being a really nasty vigilante - is not so sure. "I think we should make them wait here until the festival's over," he says. "Yeah, but that's kidnap," says "Bob". "I'm not sure we want to get into all that."

3.30am: Not my best Glastonbury so far ("What's your worst Glastonbury experience?" "Oh, probably 1998 when we got grabbed by two headcase vigilantes trying to climb over the wrong fence and then held hostage as some sort of retribution against 28 years of hippies hanging out at the festival..."). RNV says he's going to get some food and we all have to stay with "Bob" until he gets back and if we try and run away he'll make sure he personally catches all of us again, even if it takes years.

3.45am: Bob is fiddling with a bag of grass on the table. "What does this make you feel like, then?" he asks Dylan. D laughs. "Sort of like happy and giggly and warm and fluffy," he says, finally. "Try some if you want..." Bob shakes his head. "Go on," says Anna. "We won't tell the boss." Bob glares at her. "He's not the boss!" he says. "We're partners. It was his idea to beat up some hippies this year, but I agreed."

3.50am: "You agreed, did you?" says Anna, who is clearly recovering some of her legal eagle powers. "And I suppose you're proud that you "agreed" to beat up some hippies this year? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You look like a nice enough bloke. Why don't you go to the Festival yourself, drink some beer, watch a few bands - see the World Cup on a great big massive screen... " Bob's limited intelligence shows a flicker of life. "How big's the screen?" he says. "About 100 ft long and 200 feet wide," says Anna, smiling winningly and actually starting to flirt with him. "Better than down your local, I should imagine?"

5am: "You're right, it is a big screen," says Bob, exhaling a generous plume of skunk-smoke. "Actually, I haven't had so much fun for ages. Ever, in fact. Can we go back to that stone circle place and listen to the drumming again?" "Don't you think he looks a bit like Grant Mitchell?" whispers Anna.

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