I went to Glastonbury for the first time last weekend. I thought those days had passed me by at 36, with two young children, and my previous disastrous experiences with camping (involving birds' mess and a religious cult) were considerable barriers for raving in fields.

That particular hurdle was easily overcome because this trip was for “work”, so I was allowed to stay in a Travelodge. I was also going to have the BBC wristband, an “access most areas” pass, but crucially allowing access to some cleanish toilets - and I was going to “broadcast”, so I convinced myself that being a first-timer at my age was OK.

As I left London, Kenny, my husband, and a friend, whose wife was also away, had deposited five children in the paddling pool and were busy getting themselves comfortable on the sofa for an afternoon watching the Lions. I was jealous. I got in the car and, feeling mournful, I sensed that I was going to be missing an epic encounter. I wanted to be watching the Lions and after that Andy Murray at Wimbledon. I was behaving like a spoilt child; after all, I was on my way to one of the greatest music festivals in the world.

Listening to sport on radio is a wonderful exercise for the imagination. A few hours later, hot and sticky on the M4, I was thumping the passenger seat in rage. I could only imagine the injustice of the penalties awarded against the Lions. I arrived at Glastonbury feeling more Metallica than Moby - and then it hit me. The 180,000 people wandering around this gargantuan camp site did not care what had happened to the Lions. Even worse, they did not know.

I found out later that a few did know because there was a screen showing the match in a field somewhere far away from the Pyramid Stage, but most of the spectators had been drinking all day and seemed at peace with themselves and the officials' decisions.

However, most revellers were lost in some other world, where the Lions, Murray, England Under-21 and the Ashes do not exist. Can you imagine that world? Well I have seen it and it is not as far away from mine as I thought.

Let me just say in my defence that I love music, I used to go to a few gigs in my youth and I have cousins and friends who are in proper, signed-up bands. But what I noticed last weekend is that I cannot detach myself from sport.

I am the kind of person who, in a sea of 40,000 people jumping up and down to Kasabian, will notice the football flags being waved. There was a Leicester City flag (the band are from Leicester) and a Stoke City flag among those of Greenpeace, Amnesty International and many others. When I heard a Scouse accent from the large man next to me, I assumed that he would want to talk about football. I soon realised that he did not even know that there are two Premier League football teams in Liverpool - or his fragrant cigarette had made him forget.

Six young men wandered past me dressed as gimps and nobody batted an eyelid. In fact, there is nothing you could wear at Glastonbury that would raise an eyebrow. Even nothing would be acceptable. And here is where the similarity lies with sport because for four days people who would not normally drink all day or wear Bananaman outfits do whatever they like, express themselves in a way that they cannot in their everyday lives. Sport takes us outside of our daily, humdrum existence and allows us to get overexcited, childishly enthusiastic, far too passionate and for some of us releases anger and frustration that otherwise might stay bottled up.

When I heard that Kasabian were on the Pyramid Stage I said: “They did a version of David Bowie's Heroes for the ITV World Cup theme music in 2006.”

The two bemused colleagues I shared my anorak ramblings with looked at me like I was a loony. What kind of conversation could that possibly spark? Where were they to go with this dire piece of trivia?

When Kasabian belted out their hits I enjoyed them but couldn't help picturing them being used in sports montage pieces on TV. I'd stopped sharing my thoughts at this point.

It's not just at music festivals that I have these thoughts. When you mention Spandau Ballet (who were not at Glastonbury) I think: “Band responsible for writing one of the greatest sports anthems of all time - Gold.” When you mention T'Pau, I think: “China in Your Hand, a brilliant Channel 4 closing montage after the 1989 International Rhythmic Gymnastics competition.” You write a hit, I want to watch people doing sport to it.

Refreshingly, I did not see one contemporary football shirt, but I did see a retro Vancouver Whitecaps T-shirt on the back of a young man who could not have known who they were. I had to restrain myself from telling him that I watched them in the early 1980s, when Peter Beardsley, Peter Lorimer and Terry Yorath, my dad, played for them.

“Let it go, Logan,” I told myself. “Enjoy this musical adventure.” OK, but can I find out if Murray won first?

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• Graham Spiers