Even if there were festivals this year, I’d stay home

ISPENT last weekend alone with a bottle of Pinot Noir watching highlights from Glastonbury. It was most enjoyable, sobbing along to Adele and dancing like a fool to Bowie on the Pyramid stage. It’s as close to the real Glasto as I’d ever like to get.

There was a time when I’d do two festivals a year — Electric Picnic, Oxygen (RIP), Body & Soul, Latitude, Wilderness, Bestival… I’ve done ’em all. But now the thought of a mile-long queue for a fetid Portaloo where you will spend 20 minutes trying to unbutton your stupid playsuit and expertly top up your glitter eyeliner in the dark while the band you’ve been waiting for all day belt out your favourite song on stage has lost all appeal.

The last big blow-out festival I went to was the death knell. It was a very hot and dry summer in July when we dragged our rucksacks and tents through a Suffolk farm to set up. Once my pathetic two-man tent was erected, it was party time. And party we did — for the next three days and nights there was barely a moment when I didn’t have a cigarette dangling from my lips and a warm can of cider in my hand. Basically, I was a one-woman party.

On Sunday afternoon, I awoke, baking alive and dehydrating in my smelly tent. There was a problem — we were due to leave early the next day but there were still cans, fags et al to be consumed. The hardiest crew member suggested a daytime party to solve the excess issue. A few hours later I was dancing in a field when I felt my stomach clench. I made a good attempt to get to the Portaloos, but halfway had to stop, get down on my hands and knees and like a cat coughing up a hairball, I puked pathetically with an audience of approximately 500 people. Ah memories!