A weekend at a music festival? Or mouthwatering monkfish, roast peppers and smoked chicken?

At this time of year I am usually excited at the thought of next weekend’s Electric Picnic. I started going there when I was over 40, before that I always thought I was too old. There was a burgeoning food scene at festivals, and John and Sally McKenna were in charge of running the Theatre of Food so they invited some chefs and producers along to give some talks in a wonky little tent with a table and a few chairs. It’s come a long way since that weekend 14 years ago.

Back then it was always hard to get away from the restaurant. Normally someone would have to die for me to to get a day off but I swung it and invited Robert, one of my Dublin pals, as my plus one. It rained most of the time. All I remember is endless tramping through mud punctuated by joy when we came upon an undiscovered band that we loved. Pockets of light would appear in the dark as we followed the thrum of the music through the woods to the Salty Dog stage. It was like a decadent carefree spaceship in the middle of nowhere.

Back then it was all very informal. We got our wristbands, and the best fun was seeing how far they could get us through security. I remembering swaggering through the VIP area, sitting across from people that I normally wouldn’t be within an ass’s roar of. It was a thrilling and addictive disaster.

Our little two-man tent sank underneath the weight of the rain, water poured in and swamped us. Robert’s car keys drowned along with his phone so he had to be towed out of the field the next morning. We were sodden but invigorated, vowing to return every year to reclaim our fleeting youth; we had joined the cult.

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I’ve hung up my EP boots, but I haven’t given up festivals. I just want a quieter one. So instead of attending EP next weekend, I will be working. We have friends coming on the Sunday night, so I’ll cook. If I’m lucky there might be a kitchen disco, just to remind us we’re not over the hill, just yet.