How Burberry’s festival-themed pub quiz converted a Glasto sceptic

The Burberry Festival Pub Quiz wasn’t for the faint of heart. The smoking area was overflowing with A‑listers waiting for the next round of cocktail sausages, pint-covered tables were packed, and UK garage thumpers were spun by Goldie. All the while, Burberry checks covered every inch of Notting Hill’s Walmer Castle pub. Frankly, there was nowhere else I’d rather have been on a sweltering night in London.

Confession: festivals aren’t typically my thing. I’m a (proud) Glasto virgin, and All Points East has seen me all of once. I’ve never even considered the other contenders. However, partying inside the safe confines of a spruce free house with jungle’s poster boy and food on tap? That was a no-brainer.

Now, let me tell you, a heatwave in London is unbearable. So, in an effort to wear as little as possible while repping Burbs during a scorcher, I landed on the most practical-impractical of looks: a pair of transparent, pointed mules (they’ve yet to steer me wrong), a vest, a mini-mini denim Burberry skirt, and a small B‑Clip messenger bag.

As I approached the pub – a modish coterie of names spilling onto the pavement – it occurred to me that a Burberry crowd isn’t difficult to spot. Even if the checks don’t give it away, the editors and models taking 0.5 selfies will. Gabbriette and Julia Hobbs posed for pictures on a wooden bench before heading to the bar. To my right, Nick Grimshaw and his fiancée Meshach Henry mingled with John Glacier.

Perhaps it was the temperature that stripped me of all grace, or perhaps it was the five-minute span in which I’d clocked at least a dozen notable faces, but I quickly committed my first faux pas of the night, almost knocking over a tray filled with glasses of chilled Margarita and Pimm’s. Smooth. I made a beeline for the toilets for a quick reset and was greeted by Keisha – of Sugababes(!) – who threw me a quick smile.

I tried to gather my bearings. Above me was a poster of a muddy-wellied Alexa Chung for Burberry SS25, and all around, celebs. Settling in to watch Goldie practise his pint-pulling skills, I swiped myself an icy Marg. His performance? 8/​10. A solid effort, solid execution.

As we were led up the spiral staircase to the top floor, I noticed the pub had transformed from fairly prim-and-proper – dark oak everywhere – into a Burberry haven. Patrons were scattered across tables, served plates of mini burgers, fish and chips – with tartare sauce, of course – and chicken and mushroom pies.

Seven tables – filled with everyone from Corbin Shaw to Gene Gallagher, Cora Corré to Benji B – made up the teams. Gabbriette’s table was my home for the evening, and I got comfy among teammates Olivia Singer, Julia and Ch’lita. ​“We’re gonna win!” Gabbriette, the designated team scribe for the night, told me while applying her signature taupe lip liner. ​“Team Sexy, here we go!”

Host Lea Ogunlami kicked off the first round with a series of questions about headliners past and present. Our team got one of them right. Still, we perked up at the sight of ​“Fezzy Fashions” – the fifth round, which required identifying the festival and year based on what the celeb wore. Excited, we got sidetracked with selfie-ing, causing us to miss several questions. Our philosophy? How can you lose if you don’t answer the question?

Gabbriette and Julia turned into quite the artists when asked to illustrate Brat Summer: the pair drew a (redacted) and littered it with (redacted) and (redacted). Sorry, no clues here. Goldie, unpredictable as ever, stood up and declared his love for tablemate Annie Mac, before bagging an extra five points for his team with a pretty impressive Brat-ified self-portrait.

As the quiz drew to a close, the humming round – easily the most unhinged and chaotic of all – kicked off with Mabel humming Lana Del Rey’s National Anthem to near perfection. Then, things descended. Jordan Stephens’ whirring sounded like nails on a chalkboard, yet Gene’s Von Dutch rendition was surprisingly good. There was also a tinny interpretation of something none of us could figure out over at model Stevie Sims’ table. Naturally, Gabbriette’s Tiny Dancer performance roused an impromptu sing-along.

My table didn’t bother to check if we’d won the quiz, choosing instead blissful ignorance – and endless Pimm’s. While checking Citymapper for my route home, I flitted between a cup of churros and the dance floor, where Goldie was housed, taking snaps with the Sugababes.

Waiting for the Hammersmith & City line, I felt my mules starting to rub, hair smelling faintly like bonfire ashes. I realised I’d come away with a newfound respect for festivals. Well, festival-adjacent affairs. No, I didn’t leave with a pair of oversized, envy-inducing shades that would fit seamlessly into my wardrobe (ahem, Jackson Bowley). But maybe – just maybe – if Glasto is anything like Burberry’s knees-up, I might be there come 2027.