WALL OF DEATH. WALL OF DEATH. WALL OF DEATH.

The first time I glimpsed the Wall Of Death, it was packed down and bundled up into the back of a flat bed truck, heading out slowly through a parking lot (field) at Glastonbury, my first festival of the season. A group of random people, lying on the grass by their car, exhausted, hungover and delaying the drive home (as you do), immediately leapt to their feet and began chanting its name.

WALL OF DEATH. WALL OF DEATH. WALL OF DEATH.

The truck honked in response, and the entire field sent up a roaring cheer.

Shivers of goosebumps crossed my skin. Why – why oh why? – had I not seen it when I had the chance? This is what Entertainment is all about: irrational, hazardous spectacles combining modern engineering with physical prowess.

Little did I know I would have another opportunity, at Bestival three months later, my last festival of the season.

Best moment: When the leader of the troupe explains that they rely on coin donations to pay for their operations (and attendant medical costs) because no insurance company will cover them.

My favourite touch: The demure looks of the girls. With simple bangs (that’s “fringe” to you Brits), unadorned faces and modest clothes, they don’t look anything like you’d expect acrobatic, death-defying, motorcycle stunt chicks to. Somehow, it renders them even more badass.

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