Like a lot of this nation’s greatest fables, it all started in a field in Oxfordshire.
It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon and a twenty-something-year-old writer named Danny Angove had just stepped off a shuttle bus from Didcot Parkway station. After a brief chat with a refreshingly chipper wristband-yielding woman in a portable cabin – and a warm welcome from the never-less-than-friendly entranceway security – he found himself in the midst of what proudly calls itself “the UK’s most warped village fête.” Or, as you, your mates, and Companies House might know it: Truck Festival.
At first glance, it did seem rather pleasant. Groups of friends lazed about, middle-aged couples wandered arm in arm, and there were some children having A Nice Time on the dodgems. A tent was blasting out guitar music; a van promised the best churros you’ve ever eaten. So far, so very British Festival.
But then, something magical happened. Old friends were found, and new ones made; a lager was cracked, sipped, and swiftly swigged, with another soon appearing in its place; and before he knew it, this humble pensman found himself dancing as Scouting For Girls powered through ‘Elvis Ain’t Dead’, and thinking little more than four simple words: this is bloody brilliant.
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And, well, it was.
The music was fantastic, the company was stellar, and the wider ambience was… Well, it was just good. It was so good, in fact, that this buzz carried through a rather impressive Wunderhorse set, past another trip to the bar for some mid-afternoon hydration, and all the way to the closing notes of Glastonbury-headliner-in-waiting (and walking vibe magnet) CMAT.
But then, this humble writer found himself faced with a choice. Did he take the sensible route and ensure he made the last train back to London? Or did he spend £50 on a one-man pop-up tent from an on-site vendor, acting on nothing but a newfound sense of spontaneity, some blind faith in his own decision-making, and this festival’s obvious and undeniable brilliance?
Well, if you ask us, no great story ever started with ‘he did the sensible thing’. So, tent purchased, he popped it up (quite literally) in the nearest campsite and set off into the night like a man with a plan.
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And what a night it was.
The Last Dinner Party roared through indie disco anthems and arena-filling bangers, and Hard Life turned the festival’s Market Stage into a euphoric pop-dance free-for-all. And then came Kasabian. They’re the crown princes of stadium-sized British guitar music for a reason – and that reason is that they’re just better at it than anybody else. Set staples Shoot The Runner, Fire, and Underdog were married with catalogue cuts like treat and stevie to create a set that was half rock, half rave – and we’ll be damned if every person in attendance didn’t come away feeling like they’d just seen something special.
So far, so very British Festival, right?
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Well, dearest reader, this is where things started to get interesting.
Amidst all the excitement of his newfound spontaneity, an abundance of excellent musical artistés, and the debatable influence of another few lagers, this mortal writer might have managed to lose track of his friends. It happens, doesn’t it? One minute you’re surrounded by friendly faces at a pop-up disco tent; the next, you’re still enveloped by friendly faces, but you don’t recognise any of them, and you begin to suspect that your pals might’ve run away to their beds. Of course, you’ve got absolutely zero phone signal – not even enough to send an SMS message – but that’s okay. You’re in the midst of a good time and all will be well.
And then, you remember that you’re twenty-nine years old, and it’s half-past one in the morning, and you haven’t really eaten enough all day – and then you decide that it might not be a bad idea to hit the hay yourself.
So, off towards your tent you trot, wondering why you’re still writing in the second person and feeling entirely confident that you’d made nothing but a succession of excellent decisions that day.
Which you had, mostly. The only problem was that, while the list of the things you remembered from that day might have included ‘the name of your friend’s friend’s brother’ and ‘how much a large portion of chips from the burger van on the corner costs’, it didn’t extend to… Well, where you left your tent.
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It is, admittedly, mildly sub-optimal. Rumour has it that it’s even enough of a shock to snap a writer back into the third person.
So, what’s a man to do in this situation? Well, he wanders. He re-paces his steps from earlier, and pinpoints landmarks that he clocked en route, and even receives a sympathetic ‘you alright, mate?’ or two from passers-by. He’s eventually flagged down by a pair of friendly middle-aged Mancunians named Colin and Dave, who can’t really help him with finding his friends, but who do donate a couple of semi-cold beers, a packet of NikNaks, and a rather lovely conversation about their favourite Northern music venues.
Then, by some miracle, it’s three o’clock in the morning and everyone’s favourite weary writer somehow gets a phone signal. He calls his friend, Eve, who comes and collects him, and allows him to crash in her tent, nestled in between her and her friend Annabel’s airbeds, blanket-less and with a spare hoodie for a pillow, but safe and sound.
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And do you know what happened next?
He woke up. He laughed about it. He cracked open another beer and went to watch the Oxford Symphony Orchestra play a set of classical classics and re-imagined orchestral covers of pop songs. He found some more of his friends, and watched Seb Lowe, and Natasha Bedingfield, and some of Maximo Park, and most of Franz Ferdinand (who were excellent). And he learned that his tent was, unsurprisingly, where he left it; and that a couple of pals, assuming he’d been lost to the night and otherwise unable to get hold of him, had packed it up on his behalf and taken it back to Edinburgh with them that morning for safekeeping.
And that, reader, is Truck Festival in a nutshell.
In a world where it’s easy to assume the worst, there’s something soothing in the fact that it’s possible for a man to pop down to a festival for a day, have enough of a good time to decide to stay for the weekend, and balls up everything about his hastily-concocted sleeping arrangements – and yet not only emerge unscathed, but also come away with the kind of stories of love, and community, and good times that make a small Oxfordshire field feel like one of the best places in the country.
So, if you were ever in doubt, let us assure you – Truck Festival is worth the trip. With a bit of luck, you’ll leave with your own story; and, ideally, with your tent still in the same country you left it.
