Peace out at the Glastonbury Festival

After six months of darkness and drizzle, when summer finally arrives in Britain, the entire population dashes outdoors to revel in the long sunny days, kick back in the grass, clutch a pint of beer, don a silly grin and listen to music.

No-one does summer music festivals better than the British and there is no greater music and arts festival in the world than the annual three-day knees-up at Glastonbury.

What started in 1970 as a bunch of hippies listening to music in a cow paddock has become a hedonistic gathering of 150,000 hippies, yuppies, babies, teenagers, oldies, A-list celebrities and wannabes all listening to music in a giant cow paddock.

Held over the last weekend of June, all profits from the Glastonbury Festival go to charity. It's a winning formula: the world's best bands, DJs, comedians and acrobats, a smattering of poets, armchair politicians, pyrotechnics, nudists and New Age healers, all living together in a 600-acre tent city, sharing portaloos and pot.

Throw in an English downpour, squelching mud and a pair of Wellington boots, and you're in for the filthiest time of your life.