them’s the rules…
I’ve never been to Glastonbury. I’m never going to Glastonbury. I have been to Reading Festival. In fact, Donnington Monsters of Rock and I used to have a bit of an on/off thing for several years. Yes, it’s festival time again. You’ve paid a king’s ransom for a ticket, the rucksack’s packed, the throw-away tent has been bought, your feet are already sweating in their Hunter wellies and, for once, you’re all revved-up with somewhere to go! You know the rules, right? No? Here’s my take on the golden rules for unrivalled festival fun:
1. Stand out from the crowd: When the TV cameras pan out you want to be noticed, you secretly want your parents to recognise you and you certainly want your friends to be insanely jealous as your gorgeous mindfulness & beauty beams out from the stage screens. Fancy dress, animal paints, holding a very big flag, being naked – avoid them all. You want to be noticed and honed-in on? Wear a suit. A sombre three-piece flannel business affair. With a button-hole.
2. Just say no: Let me reiterate what your ol’ dears have been telling you since you were in the cradle – people do drugs. And it makes them do the strange things that scare little children and spoil it for everyone. Rest assured the police will be there, undercover. The tighter the shorts, the higher the rank. Anyone in angel wings is special branch.
3. Brace yourself, Sheila: Go for a good dump before you leave home, before you alight the train, before you exit the station, before you leave the town-centre, at the last café before the site, and behind that large brick wall by the entrance. Failing this you need to join the queue for the sh*t tardis as soon as you’re on site. You will suffer from PTSD (post-traumatic septic disorder) and take the precaution of getting signed-off work for a week as flashbacks will continue for the foreseeable. You will remain scarred for life.
4. Miss the headliner: You didn’t come here to watch the bands, least of all Kanye West, or Noel Gallagher’s low-flying pastiche, for that matter. First of all, “artist” doesn’t always correspond to a good painter and the same extends to music. There’s a good piece of knowledge right there. Secondly, it’s vital you miss the legend at the top of the bill – how you spent the time in a ditch with little known indie favourites ‘Toilet Time’ and both their fans will make for a far more interesting anecdote. Probably.
5. Spend, spend, spend: The price of festival tickets has replaced house-price-inflation as the dinner-party discussion of choice around Belgravia’s finest tables. Where once the Rolex on your wrist was a vulgar display of your wealth, now it’s the collection of coloured festival wristbands upon the other. We know you’re rich because you can afford to go, so shut the f*ck up about the sixteen-quid lentil burger. And we’re secretly delighted it gave you the sh*ts.
6. Make an early exit: Contrary to your drug-fuelled delusion, the indigenous population of the festival’s little village don’t want to live with you for the rest of the year. When it’s finished you have to leave. Yes, you HAVE TO LEAVE. To avoid the jam, and the tractor having to pull your recently-restored camper van from the quagmire, leave about 15 minutes after you arrive, just before the great unwashed (that failed to leave the previous year) realise the van has a lovely, clean, unused chemical toilet on board…
7. Lie through your teeth: Undoubtedly, THE most important thing about your attendance of festivals is that you brag to friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances and complete strangers alike, about how brilliant & amazing the whole experience was. Liar. It was cold, wet, you were lonely, you couldn’t see anything, the sound system wasn’t as loud as your neighbour’s boom-box, you got a black-eye from a juggler’s ball, your tent was actually stolen before you could throw it away, you slept under a hedge and sobbed like a baby when you finally got home. And you already have a ticket for next year!
