Creamfields 2004

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3 p.m. We arrive at the old Liverpool airfield in Speke ready to rave, with almost perfect festival weather promised following a week of incessant rain. It's cloudy but mild; Ideal for 12 hours or so of boozed up boogying. Surprisingly, a substantial queue has already formed, packed with good-natured party people. Yet, we're in the fortunate position of being able to bypass this (see ya suckers!) and head over to the far smaller, but equally enthusiastic crowd that's largely made up of press and any punters who're sufficiently wedged up to afford this year's 90 quid 'hospitality' tickets.

4 .p.m. Nobody's moved. An hour after advertised lift-off and the gates have yet to open. A quick phone call to Cream reveals the delay to be all down to 'logistic' difficulties. A further conversation with the VF photographer, who shamelessly blagged her way in a couple of hours ago, reveals problems with the site itself.  Some of the ground's well and truly waterlogged, apparently making it unsafe in its present state. Naturally, nobody informs the waiting masses and with time ticking on, impatience is swiftly setting in.

4.15 p.m. As Brookie's Mike Dixon grumpily strolls by, the main queue bods have decided to bum-rush the show and a huge surge forwards gets them a few metres towards the distant entrance until security manage to head them off and lob another fence in place. Get in your place, peasants! Inevitably, it's not long before the local plod arrive on scene, complete with copper chopper hovering above. Around us, a rousing rendition of the 'A-Team' theme tune is led by a group of excitable Jocks. Best entertainment yet.

5.00 p.m. The gates are finally opened and, much to our horror, ordinary Joe Public flood by in their droves. All apart from A Man Called Adam's official fan club, who upon discovering that their hero's set finished half an hour ago, turn back home - crying. The 'hospitality' ticket holders remain stationary though, as what probably seemed like a logical and entirely sensible system during a Creamfields planning meeting, means they've actually paid more but have to wait longer.   

6.00 p.m. Along with others who've now been stood in the same place for about three hours, we're in. In an effort to combat the impending crowd control chaos, there's a worrying lack of security checks, with not a bag searcher or drug hound in sight. Knew we shouldn't have dumped that suitcase full of ketamine in the amnesty bin.

6.45 p.m. After lugging a backpack of our remaining class A's and firearms around all day, we've tiring and have trudged around the airfield in an attempt to find 'left luggage' in which to stash our cache. We're not assisted by the woefully inaccurate map on the back of our line-up laminate and it's a miserable-looking, cramped festival site with sound systems competing for airwaves. After eventually locating an information point, we're told that no such facility exists. Waving tickets triumphantly in their faces that have 'information' to the contrary, they apologise and mumble something about, 'lack of space'.