The thing at Reading was to fill a two litre plastic bottle with piss and send it spinning through the air, thus liberally dousing the crowds below with your golden output. I was terrified. There was a brief moment when you didn't want to smell like wee. And then it all became moot.
First time at Glastonbury I popped my head out of the tent one morning to see a girl doing a piss right there. Skirt up, knickers down, full on and going for glory. I have no idea why though I rather wished she wasn't (that kind of thing isn't my thing, trust me). The shock of my appearance made her fall back in the mud mid-stream. I'm not sure which of us was most traumatised by the experience, but fortunately only the one of us suffered the indignity of lying in the mud spraying piss over ourselves. I bet she wished she had independent targeting control about then. She stumbled off, knickers half mast. Or slithered, owing to the fact everything was already six inch deep in mud. There was no classy escape from that situation.
I imagine it's all very civilised these days. I'm too old for all night sound systems. I'm too old for all night anything.