You’d have to be living on a remote island somewhere to not know that this week marks the start of the worlds most renowned and talked about festival; Glastonbury.
I’ve never been nor have I ever embarked on the huge mission to try and procure tickets. Don’t get me wrong, it looks absolutely amazing and as a huge live music fan myself, I’m sure I would enjoy the experience.
Well, when I say enjoy the experience, I’d love to see some of my all-time favourite music acts live again, I’ve been lucky to see both headliners; Coldplay and Adele this year and they did not disappoint. At all.
However, ask me to make a tent in the middle of a quagmire my home for a few days and I’d look at you like you’d just poked me in the eye with my own finger.
I did it once. I tried the whole camping at a festival thing and it was in my Top 10 worst experiences of my life (perhaps a blog post for another day eh?).
We were ill prepared to say the least.
Allow me to set the scene.
It was 2009 and I was 23. Both myself and my best friend had recently recovered from a bout of Swine Flu that had rendered us bed ridden for over a week. Once I was allowed to emerge from self-imposed quarantine I was absolute buzzing to be heading to my first ‘proper festival’. So excited was I, that I’d not even given the whole tent thing much of a second thought.
My best friend assured me that we had a really easy tent to assemble, just throw it and that’s it, we’ll be drinking and enjoying ourselves while all the other festival goers are still trying to work out if they’ve got their tent instructions round the right way.
Turns out a pop up cow tent is not conducive to festival life. Especially if the festival is the dance extravaganza Global Gathering (never again).
My love affair with the cow tent was as short-lived as my stay at Global Gathering.
Fast forward 12 hours and after too much sun and FAR TOO MUCH DRINK all we wanted to do was pass out in our tent and steel ourselves for the next day that was sure to be as hedonistic as the first.
It wasn’t to be, I could barely get my head in the bloody thing, let alone my body. If this was a 2 person tent then I’d hate to see what a 1 person tent looked like, I doubt you could even get a child in there.
We didn’t last long at that festival. 36 hours I think it was – maybe less, before I was back in the comfort of my own bed vowing to never dip my toe in the world of festivals again.
Well, fast forward 7 years and I’m now counting down the weeks until I head off to V Festival in August (part of our 30th birthday celebrations, yep they’re still going on). Glutton for punishment? Not me, for we have booked ourselves into a hotel. We are doing this in style.
We’ll be bedding down for the night in the comfort of a Premier Inn, enjoying all the facilities and ensuring we’re festival ready the following morning. And I make absolutely no apology for this.
Hair straighteners are essential when it comes to making me look semi decent, a hot shower is mandatory and I’m not that great at functioning without at least 6-7 hours of sleep a night. Resting my weary and drunken head on the ground is not going to help proceedings. I need comfort, I need plug sockets and I need space. 3 things that aren’t exactly easy to come by in the middle of a field along with thousands of others.
I get ratty at night and it ain’t pretty, no one needs to be subjected to that, least of all my best friend; she puts up with enough when it comes to me and my ways.
Lastly, when it comes to tent assembling I neither have the savvy nor the patience for such a task. Knowing me, I’d be 5 minutes in and I’d have shied the bloody thing in the nearest bin.
I take my hat off to those who embrace the festival lifestyle in its entirety but I’m afraid it’s just not for me. As jealous as I am at the thousands upon thousands of people who are going to have the time of their lives watching Coldplay put on a show and Adele making the crowds cry (to name but a few acts), I didn’t envy the drenched Glasto goers loitering outside Bristol Temple Meads this morning weighed down by their tents and camping essentials. Nor do I envy those people who are currently stuck in 12 hour long traffic jams only to be met by a mud bath upon their arrival.
Too posh to pitch? You bet. And what of it?
Not. A. Fucking. Chance.