Wireless. Lovebox. Download. Reading and Leeds. T in the Park. Glasto (or Glasters if you’re edgy.) V Fest. S Fest. Paint-yourself-purple-and-sing-a-fucking-rainbow-fest
I went to a festival once, and I fucking hated it.
Maybe it was because I festered for seventy-two hours in my own crud, because not showering was preferable to showering in a stall of impetigo, syphilis, and let’s face it, probably a new strain of the Black Death.
Or maybe it was because my place of dwelling was a two man tent which I shared with four other people, two of whom spent the whole time shagging, and worse still, pretending that they weren’t shagging.
Or maybe it was because, when Ed Sheeran finally appeared, so did 15mm of torrential rainfall, and a group of lads with a colossal fucking sign, which read, ‘I’ve been burning on a spliff of your a-grade, now my eyes are red.’
Or maybe it was because mud infiltrated every orifice of my personage, and even the anaemic hot dogs I survived on began to taste like earth.
Or maybe it was because I wouldn’t know over half of the line up if I fell over them, and that those I did know were actually better recorded with auto-tune.
Or maybe it was because of the plethora of desperately-trying-to-be-individualists with their uniform of strategically torn denim, tie-dye, and carefully dishevelled obviously Topshop garland decorated hair, smoking what was probably a tea bag in a skin and using big words like ‘experience’ and ‘existential.’
But what is infinitely worse than all of the above is the inevitability of perusing social media at this time of year and having to relive the trauma through literally everybody else. Why has it become almost compulsory to be involved in the festival mania? Why stand in a crowd of however many thousand people and listen to an inferior quality of music you like, and even music you don’t like? Go ahead. Say the words. ‘Experience…atmosphere…unification.’ Since when did you have to unify yourself with anyone, or wear a stupid garland from Topshop to enjoy music?
There’s a lot to be said for a bedroom, a pair of speakers with great bass, the comfort of pyjamas and Spotify. So you can keep your oversized tee; I’m staying away from the fest this summer.