Elis James

Roland's out.

He's done.

He's gone.

Every single one of those sentences represents a waking nightmare to 43-year-old me.

But I am incredibly proud of that 17-year-old.

He saved up his dishwashing money, he braved the elements, and he had the most visceral, unfiltered, youthful festival experience possible.

If I were to go back to a festival like that now at 43, I feel like I'd be actively insulting that boy.

What is this going on about?

I wouldn't be arriving on a packed, sweaty shuttle bus.

I'd be rocking up in an air-conditioned VW Touran.

I wouldn't be getting crushed at the...

the front for a glimpse of Dave Grohl, I'd be standing at the very back where the sound parity is better, wearing high-fidelity gig earplugs, sipping a non-alcoholic drink and commenting on how nice the sunshine is.

That's all so fine and good.

Sounds absolutely delightful.

I'll leave his memories untarnished and let him mosh, dance and sleep in rain-soaked trousers, because no matter how much mud he has to scrape off his shins, he can guarantee to enjoy it a million times more than I ever could today.

Keep up the great work, Roland, a.k.a.

Roland.

But things change.

They were both great.

Rolanda.