Why, oh why, at the grand old age of 44, have I still not learnt to take a full day off work on the Thursday when heading off for a long weekend of fun?

After a shit morning in the office, in which 4 weeks of crap was saved up to throw in my direction, cars and camper vans are packed and we’re off to the beautiful Lulworth Castle for Camp Bestival 2015.

The first morning delivers brilliant sunshine which stays with us the whole weekend. Laden with ale, lemonade and bucket loads of sweets, we plot up at the main stage for a few hours of undercard acts (i.e. – no-one we’ve ever heard of). This tactic delivers both ends of the scale.

The Spooky Mens Chorale delivers at the lower end. Spooky men with mildly humorous rhymes, lost on 90% of the pre-pissed (and pre Dick & Dom) crowd.

Mr Wilson’s Second Liners deliver at the top, top end. Named after the late Mr Manchester, Anthony H, this New Orleans brass band churn out Hacienda classics – it really is as good as it sounds and can only be bettered by Mr Wilson’s One liners:

‘Fuckin’ hate castles me’. Turrets syndrome kicking in again

After sampling a bit of Dick (and Dom), I leave the family for a spot of respite at The Satin Lizard Lounge (curated, but not attended, by Scrubious Pip).

Now, if you’ve never had much time for poetry and spoken word, I suggest you review that opinion and get along to see some of the current pack of bright young things. I took a non-believer along with me and he was soon converted (helped by 4 pints of the splendid Bestivale).

Prior to Pip’s assembly of guests, we’re lucky enough to catch some of the Roundhouse Poets – a street savvy collective all aged under 18. If ever you didn’t think poetry was uplifting, challenging or ultimately cool – then catch these kids.

Next up is Jodi Anne Bickley whose amazing story you need to read and whose ‘fall in love with me’  voice you need to hear. Suffering from  (amongst other things) Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Jodi was on the verge of taking her own life but within half an hour had decided to help a million other people through their lives instead, and One Million Lovely Letters was born. Now, every day, Jodi writes hundreds of letters to people at their lowest ebbs, telling them how special they are and giving them the lift they desperately need.

I sell knickers to rich people in the Middle East. Jodi wins.

She’s a shit hot poet as well (helped by the aforementioned voice…)

Finally, stand up comedian/ poet/ promoter/ actor, Rob Auton hits the stage. He’s funny, he’s hairy and he’s northern – just like the majority of my favourite people. For 15 minutes I wanted to be Rob. One day I’d like him to return the favour.

Rob’s a veteran of the Festival scene (Glastonbury, Latitude, Green Man and, I’m reliably informed, the Edinburgh Fridge Festival. Wrap up for that one). Get along to his brilliant Bang Said The Gun poetry night in South London to see what you’ve been missing.

Once tired and hungry kids have been rested and fed we’re off to feed their request of going raving. Next to an inflatable church and a bar we find a small white tent playing decent music – let the raving begin!

Raving though, it transpires, consists of legging it into said tent, jumping up and down a few times, taking a selfie and legging it out again. Just surprised it’s taken me so long to find that out.

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It’s day 2 and still the kids haven’t asked for the ipad, television or any fruit or veg yet. Long may it continue.

The main stage is avoided for most of the day courtesy of Only The Young, Level 42, Mr Tumble and the even more annoying, un-fat, un-hairy Ricky bloody Wilson and his band. We did slip over to watch the timeless British funk sound of Cymande though and well worth it, it was.

The evening saw a family trip to the Wall of Death (exactly what you’d expect – man on motorbike rides round inside of oversized cylinder. Bloody brilliant) and the announcement that dad’s could have a night out at the expense of the retiring mums and kids. Bloody brillianter.

And a few hours of 808 State, Silent Disco, non-silent crap chat ensued. But then, at 3am, everything ends and you have to go to bed. It’s genius. If only Glastonbury did that, I wouldn’t have given up drinking for a month last year.

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Day 3 starts with a hangover. But not a big one. As I said, genius Camp Bestival.

We spend the early afternoon watching the kids get tied up in ropes and climbing trees before watching the mighty Will Nicol play big records to little people at Big Fish Little Fish. Except, it’s not quite like that; it’s big records to lots of big people (mainly dads) who look like they’ve not stopped dancing since 1988. This place gets better – and the kids are loving it!

As the evening draws in, we venture back to the main stage for Soul II Soul and what is ultimately the Wilson family’s biggest draw of the weekend – the poet/ rapper/ Mercury prize nominee, Kate Tempest. My 11 year old has steadily got more and more obsessed by Ms T and her music (as have I) and she delivers a typically inspirationally,  empowering set that leaves my girl child smitten. ‘She looked at me when she said the F word at the end’. And that’s how love affairs begin.

Then Underworld do what Underworld do brilliantly while a field full of ex ravers (the no selfie/ leggit variety) hoist kids on their shoulders. The night ends with a grand firework display while our kids scuffle between punters legs to collect dropped cans and plastic cups (10p a pop refunds, so it’s worth it. If they’re good, next year I may allow them to watch the fireworks…)

I’d gone to Camp Bestival expecting a Festival-lite that may not be festival enough even for my 7 and 11 year olds. What I found was a bloody brilliant festival in its own right. Full of the excitement and vibrancy of its counterparts and certainly not the over-sized village fete that a part of me was fearing. It looks like a proper festival. It feels like a proper festival. It is a proper festival.

We’ve already decided we’ll be back next year. And this time I’m booking the whole of Thursday off.

@jonnytbonewils