Ever since the Reading Festival lineup dropped last year — with multiple of my favourite artists slapped all over the poster — I knew I had no choice but to go. Festival newbie? Absolutely. Prepared? Absolutely not. But that didn’t stop me and six of my equally unprepared friends from snapping up tickets and diving headfirst into the unknown, like a group of musical lemmings with zero survival skills.
I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, especially with a lineup that read like someone hit shuffle on Spotify’s weirdest playlist: folk, rap, and nu-metal all fighting for attention. I also braced myself for a weekend buried in teenagers fresh off their GCSEs and A-levels, but surprisingly, the crowd was far more mixed than I imagined. Until it was time for the silent disco that is, but more on that later.
Our adventure began with a train journey that felt like an extreme sport. Multiple changes, zero space, and bags that weighed more than I do (not an exaggeration). Add in strangers who treat personal space like an optional side quest, and you’ve got a journey to remember — or repress. But things started looking up when we hit Reading Station and were met with a festival shuttle straight to the gates. The vibes? Immaculate. The crowd? Buzzing. That’s when it hit me — I was really doing this. In just a few days, I’d be screaming lyrics in a massive sea of people, watching my favourite artists live, at my very first festival.
Shoutout to the lovely shuttle staff who not only helped get my brothers ridiculous trolley on board but also slung my bag on my back with a chuckle, joking that I was smaller than my own luggage. (Spoiler alert: they weren’t wrong.) Pro tip for anyone planning to go next year: DO. NOT. BRING. A. TROLLEY. Seriously. More on that disaster later.
My dad and I were staying in the accessibility/guest camp, which sounded ideal—until we discovered it was actually further from the main gates than the standard campsites. Accessibility? More like a scenic hike with a twist of confusion, since none of the welcome staff on the main entrance seemed to know where it was either. After a solid detour and a questionable 8–10-minute trek (very accessible, cheers), we finally stumbled across the box office entrance like two tired adventurers discovering El Dorado.
But massive kudos to the accessibility site team — they were absolute legends. From the box office crew to the working site staff, to the man who drove us to the bus on the last day rather than just back to the box office, our camp managers Summer and SJ (or Esther as I thought her name was for a while), and the loveliest security folks who watched over us for five whole days, every single one of them was a gem. Any issues we had? Solved in seconds. Plus, they managed to be friendly and helpful at the same time. (Special shoutout to whoever sorted us boiling water for pot noodles —you’re a hero and a chef.) And let me tell you, the managers were the best of the best. They dealt with problems they probably didn’t expect to deal with when they signed up for their job. Like our noisy neighbours, and mothering other people’s drunken children. And I shit you not, somebody having their TV on full blast at 3am.
Once the tents were up and our belongings exploded across the field (followed by a mandatory nap and some food—because I discovered 21 is the magical age where naps become a survival strategy, not a luxury), we set off to explore the campsites. It was like a little festival village: food vendors everywhere, merch stalls, pop-up thrift shops, independent businesses, ice cream trucks — you name it. Sugar highs and spontaneous spending were dangerously easy.
But oh, my days. The walk from our camp to the main campsite (note: not the arena, just the campsite) was absurd. People seriously underestimated it. We passed so many broken souls dragging their worldly possessions behind them like extras in a survival movie, and more than one person was mid-meltdown just five minutes in. So naturally, we became accidental Sherpas, helping carry bags for strangers who looked on the verge of sobbing. We did that trek — fully loaded — eight times. Eight. I really should’ve set up a tip jar. (Kids, if you are reading this and you are coming next year, take my advice. 1. Get fit, 2. Leave the vapes at home, and 3. Travel light, ditch the trolley. There is a long dirt track, where I have seen lighter treks up Snowdonia...)
And back to the trolley fiasco? Disaster. Pure chaos. We saw more broken trolleys than working ones, with rogue wheels abandoned like tiny casualties across the site. Moral of the story: either invest in a military-grade trolley or stuff everything into a backpack and prepare to suffer. There is no in-between.
After hauling half the campsite’s luggage like some kind of festival pack mule, I’d earned a feast — or at the very least, a snack that didn’t come in the form of a lukewarm cereal bar crushed in the bottom of my bag. So, naturally, I embarked on a 20-minute pilgrimage around the food vendors, performing the sacred ritual of staring blankly at menus while pretending to be decisive.
And let me say — Reading delivered on selection. This year’s food selection was basically the United Nations of street cuisine. We’re talking Greek gyros, Mexican burritos, chicken in every conceivable form, duck (my personal holy grail), all-day breakfast because the UK would riot without it, a solid showing of Chinese stalls, noodles galore, pasta, pizza, and a full-blown carvery, as if someone just carted over a Sunday roast from a village pub. Honestly, if someone had popped up with sushi or a roast goose, I wouldn’t have even blinked. However, after speaking to two different vendors, they told me they paid £20,000 just to be on site, and Reading themselves were setting the food prices. Yes people, that’s £20,000 before even making a profit.
The whole thing was washed down by Pepsi and Drip (this year’s sponsors and your only hydration options at stalls), plus bars scattered generously around the arena to ensure no one went more than 20 feet without access to overpriced cider.
Personally, I became something of a regular at the duck stand — no regrets — and also sampled the noodle bar, carvery, and one heroic vendor in our campsite that served up what might be the greatest bacon and breakfast rolls I’ve ever tasted. Sure, when you first glance at the prices (£10–£15 per meal, per person, drinks not included), your soul dies a little. But plot twist: the portions were reasonable for me (my large and tall manager, not so much), the food was relatively hot, and — shockingly — actually delicious. I didn’t get to try every single stall (unfortunately, my bank account does have limits), but everything I did sample was 100% worth the spend.
Food verdict: 10/10. Zero regrets.
A very happy, very well-fed girl.
Alright, let’s get to the heart of the matter — the music. Because, let’s be honest, we didn’t just show up for the overpriced merch and questionable porta-loos. Reading 2025 basically threw a musical blender on high and said, “Here’s your chaos smoothie, enjoy!”
Friday kicked off with everyone’s favourite Irish troubadour, Hozier, serenading us like a poetic forest spirit who probably spends his weekends brooding in a leather jacket. Saturday was my personal highlight — and by highlight, I mean I nearly lost my voice screaming — because Limp Bizkit finally graced the stage. I’d been waiting hours for this moment, and the universe delivered. Fred Durst even noticed my “BIZKIT” embroidered jersey from the front row. Yes, he actually commented on my t-shirt. I’m officially a Limp Bizkit VIP now, sorry not sorry.
Then came Sunday, headlined by Travis Scott, which filled me with equal parts dread and trepidation. I was bracing for chaos, crowd surfing mishaps, and maybe a few aliens to descend, but shockingly? The crowd was surprisingly well-behaved, and the security team handled every minor hiccup like absolute pros. So yes, miracles do happen — Travis Scott ended Reading without a single disaster I could spot.
Reading Festival isn’t just about the headliners though —it’s a whole universe of acts crammed into one chaotic weekend, and trust me, this year’s main stage offerings were nothing short of a rollercoaster ride through every musical mood imaginable.
Take Chappell Roan, for instance. If gothic pop had a queen, she’d be it. Her set was a deliciously dark, theatrical spectacle that made everyone around me question their life choices — and their wardrobe. Whether you were mesmerized or mildly terrified, she owned that stage like it was her personal throne.
Next up, Conan Gray brought that signature mix of tender heartbreak and indie-pop sparkle. It’s the kind of music that makes you want to simultaneously cry and dance awkwardly with your friends. His set felt like the soundtrack to every late-night existential crisis, perfectly capturing the weird, messy brilliance of being young and confused.
Meanwhile, Wallows floated in with that effortlessly cool vibe that screams, “We definitely just woke up like this.” Their laid-back indie rock was the perfect chill counterpoint to the more intense acts and watching them felt like catching your effortlessly stylish friend at their most candid.
For those craving a nostalgic trip, The Kooks were serving up their classic indie anthems like a warm, familiar hug. Hearing their hits live for the second time in my life felt like rewinding time to a simpler era of skinny jeans and mixtapes. We also had THE Rebel Wilson as a surprise guest!
Now, the unexpected highlight — or lowlight, depending on your perspective—was Vikkstar123’s DJ set. Now, I admit to having a little soft spot for the Sidemen, after watching them for over four years, so it was very exciting for me to see 1/7 sidemen in the flesh after spending hundreds of pounds in the past on their merch… The Sidemen star brought a digital edge to the party, but in true festival fashion, the set was cut short halfway through due to crowd overflow (well, half of the crowd couldn’t even make it into the small pop-up Jager bar where his set was being held). The tent became a sardine can of eager fans, and security had to step in to prevent a full-on human traffic jam. Ah, festival life — never a dull moment.
On the smoother side of things, Royel Otis delivered a set that felt like a sun-drenched daydream — laid-back, melodic, and utterly soothing. It was the perfect musical palate cleanser between chaos and nostalgia. I was disappointed we didn’t get his viral cover of “Linger”, but I can’t complain as we had Sophie-Ellis Bextor join them on stage to sing “Murder on the Dancefloor.”
Red Rum Club injected some much-needed brass and bounce into the mix, their energetic indie-pop bringing a party vibe that got even the most reluctant dancers moving. Imagine a spontaneous rooftop celebration in the middle of a muddy field — and you’re halfway there.
And just when you thought things couldn’t get any more interactive, Voila took it to the next level by crashing the crowd to sing and dance with us. No distancing — just pure, unfiltered connection. It was one of those magical moments where the line between artist and audience totally disappeared, and everyone felt like part of the show.
Then, brace yourself — because Enter Shikari stormed the stage with their usual high-voltage madness. Think lasers, political talks, and a mosh pit that might have shifted the earth’s rotation ever so slightly. Their performance was a head-banging, adrenaline-fueled blast that left everyone both exhilarated and questioning their life choices. You either ran with the pack or got trampled (or kicked in the head multiple times by crowd surfers)—and honestly, that’s part of the fun.
Let’s take a moment to give some serious kudos to the unsung heroes of Reading 2025—the security team. Not only were they impressively efficient and genuinely friendly (a rare combo at any festival), but they also doubled as unofficial entertainers. There was one security guard—who I was convinced all weekend was called “Graham” (don’t ask me why)—who took selfie duties to a whole new level, happily posing on strangers’ phones and keeping the vibe light while making sure we were all safe and sound. Of course, if crowd control or handing out water was needed, Graham dropped the phone and sprang into action like a superhero in hi-vis.
Now, those chilling at the back of the crowd probably had no idea just how hard these guys were working behind the scenes, but here’s a little brag: after spending two whole days at the barricade with them, the security team and I became more than just acquaintances—we became mates. Then there was the absolute legend of a Security Team Lead—name unknown, but personality unforgettable—who cheekily pocketed one of Enter Shikari’s set lists. My manager couldn’t resist teasing him, joking if it was a gift for us (classic British banter).
Fast forward to Limp Bizkit’s set, and there I was, melting at the barricade, needing an escape from the heat and chaos. Cue a different guard, now my festival guardian angel, lifting me over the barrier and asking me to hang tight because someone had something for me… And just when I thought my luck had peaked, the security who pocked the previous set list tapped me on the shoulder and handed over the holy grail: the Limp Bizkit set list. Cue the emotional moment — I almost cried… but dehydration got the better of me.
All in all, Reading 2025’s main stage was a dazzling few days of genres, vibes, and surprises—exactly what a festival should be. From dark theatrical pop to high-energy punk, nostalgic indie, and unexpected DJ drama, it kept us guessing, dancing, and thoroughly entertained every step of the way. And was absolutely worth the long days camping out at barricade.
Now is a good time to mention the disaster that was the silent disco. I naively thought i would stand outside and happily snap some photos of the excitable revellers going to their first experience of a rave with no parents to monitor them. What I actually found myself in the midst of, was something that can only be likened to being caught in the middle of a herd from The Walking Dead. Yes, those herds that you thought were made up just for the show, are actually real. Not only had I found one. And I was in it. Only they seem to be a hell of a lot faster here than they do on the TV.
Luckily for me, my manager is built like a rugby player and has a face that says “not tonight, son” and apparently magically parts hordes of shirtless, teenage boys like Moses planning an impromptu stroll along the Red Sea without a bridge in sight. Emboldened by my survival, I then had a crazy thought. “Hey, why not get in there and capture the real energy up close?” Spoiler alert: that idea lasted about five seconds.
The moment I stepped inside, I was greeted by sweaty, inebriated teens. I swear, there were at least 2,000 of them packed in like they’d all forgotten what spatial awareness means. And me? A 5’3” female photographer trying to navigate this human stampede? No one seemed remotely interested in letting me through, and honestly, I don’t blame them — dodging flailing arms and stumbling dancers is a full-contact sport on its own. Enter my savior (again): my manager. Instead of getting tackled or shoved aside, the crowd parted whenever he moved me through. A polite “excuse me” didn’t cut it here, it required a more hands on approach. Suddenly, it was like having a VIP pass, just for having a built-for-contact bodyguard by my side. So yeah, I found the real Walking Dead — and trust me, they’re way messier in real life. The things I do for my newfound art.
Altogether, Reading Festival 2025 was a whirlwind of incredible music, unexpectedly good food, and some of the friendliest (and most entertaining) security teams and staff members you could hope for. From the epic chaos of the Silent Disco to my front-row moment with Limp Bizkit, it was a weekend full of unforgettable moments and new friendships—plus a fair share of hilarious mishaps. But beware, festival-goers: among the many souvenirs you might take home, Reading Lung (yes, I did just name a new medical condition) is perhaps the most unwanted. Yes, that’s right — coughing up rare Earth minerals like some post-apocalyptic miner, to use my managers analogy, and I must admit this one was slightly lost on me, it reminded him of something out of Mad Max enter the Thunderdome (the Chevron tent), a giant dust bowl, bizarrely dressed raving disciples and a fight for survival. If nothing else, this festival proved that surviving Reading isn’t just about loving the music — it’s about embracing chaos, working on that stamina and seriously investing in some breathing apparatus.
Until next time, stay dusty, resilient and downright unstoppable!
