Glastonbury was good but having a nice loaf after was even better - Alexander Brown

I have spent the last week in a daze, as my body and soul recover from a festival I attended.

Out of respect for those jealous they didn’t attend, I won’t name it, which also helps me with my crippling withdrawals.

This goes far beyond exhausted, it is a deep tiredness that obviously deserves zero sympathy.

I had the best time, far better than whatever you were doing, singing my little heart out to the various sad girl artists people my age like.

A loaf of bread with butter was just the post-festival ticket. Picture: Getty Images.

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Belting out bangers from Olivia Rodrigo, Phoebe Bridgers and Haim was a euphoric experience, albeit one that leads to the exciting new game of “has my voice gone or do I have Covid?”.

Reader it was the best five days of the year, but does mean I am now a man held together purely by looking at my own Instagram and the BBC highlights, lest the reality of normal life consumes me.

I am a husk, a gloaty boasty husk, telling everyone about how good it was while also hoping they don’t try to get tickets next year.

That’s not to say it’s perfect though, with one minor irritation being the burden that hits everyone who’s a captive audience: the food.

I should preface this by saying I think selling bad food should be illegal and see you shunned by the public.

There are few feelings worse than going out especially, seeing something fun on a menu and handing cash over for a meal you could do better yourself.

I’m not saying it all has to be Michelin quality, there is clearly space for greasy guilty pleasures like McDonald’s in the pantheon of food, but it does have to offer some pleasure.

Yet while this festival has a veritable array of options, there’s also a substantial amount of dross awaiting you by sellers who know exactly what they are doing.

The fields are lined with vans promising things such as the “best ever fish and chips”, presumably in quote marks as legally they cannot actually call it that.

I did not eat well, aside from a restorative mezze, with my options small, salty and more food adjacent than actual meals.

As such I returned home in dire need of comfort, needing something good but also easy, like your mum, to put me back together.

This meant bread, good, thick and fresh bread, absolutely lathered in butter or covered in something hot, preferably both.

You can go to restaurants and enjoy scallops, roasts and or other cool things people like, but I promise you none of it is better than bread and butter.

It’s good with a topping, for dipping, either side of something, it’s a carb with more range than Tilda Swinton.

I went for two slices of a brown seeded loaf, toasted, and covered in salted butter, with four scrambled eggs also cooked in butter, and nearly a whole packet of Scottish smoked salmon.

Sure sex is great, but have you ever had eggs melt butter through toast?

Since then I’ve had bread every day not just because it’s delicious, but also if I eat enough I can have a food coma and dream about Glastonbury again.

Oh had I not mentioned I went? I don’t like to go on about it.

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