Don't feel ashamed about avoiding festivals this summer – no one has actually ever had fun at one

Women over 20: step away, I beseech you, from fringed suede minis, Daisy Duke hotpants and leather bralets. A menopausal boob does not suit a non-underwired strip of fabric. And men and women alike: do not be tempted by a 'fun' bumbag to carry your cash in – it will look like a badly concealed colostomy bag

Claudia Lewis
Friday 11 August 2017 17:14 BST
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Is this what you really want? Be wise and stay at home
Is this what you really want? Be wise and stay at home

There are some things I am ashamed to admit. I have never eaten a Scotch egg. I have dark fantasies about Phil from EastEnders. I like to sing “Summer of 69” on my oldest child’s karaoke set when everyone’s out the house. But there is one admission even more shameful than these – I have never been to a music festival.

Swipe through Facebook anytime in July or August and you will be besieged with posts and pics of people apparently having the time of their lives at a festival. Be it Glastonbury, Bestival, Latitude or the Isle of Wight, these shiny happy people exclaim “Whoa the Glasto sunset” or “Having time of my life at the Pyramid Stage” or “Selfie of me at the long-drop toilet!” with alarming frequency.

Friends post beaming images of themselves and their kids rocking out to Ed Sheeran, toddlers raised high above their heads kitted out in multi-coloured ear-defenders. “Come!” they tell me. “Bring the kids – it’s so family friendly! You’ll love it! What? You’ve never been to a festival? But how can you bear it?!”

Nevertheless, I am unmoved by the blissful boho pictures and scenes of bucolic joy. I conveniently miss the deadline to apply for Glastonbury tickets, and I cite vague and complicated reasons why I’m unavailable for any other festival this summer.

Because I know the real truth about music festivals. And here’s why I’ll never be signing up…

Festival fashion

I do not suit a fringed waistcoat. It does not make me look like a carefree wood sprite; it makes me look like a geriatric cowgirl.

Women over 20: step away, I beseech you, from fringed suede minis, Daisy Duke hotpants and leather bralets. A menopausal boob does not suit a non-underwired strip of fabric. A generous calf does not suit a Hunter welly.

Do not put glitter on your face – it will sink into your wrinkles and settle glumly on your jowls. There is no such thing as “boho chic” for you anymore. There is only M&S chic, with a flutter at Wallis for the more adventurous.

Men, too, should take note. Festival accessories are not for you. A balding dad in a wizard’s hat would make a troubling encounter on any high street in broad daylight, let alone in a field at midnight.

And men and women alike: do not be tempted by a “fun” bumbag to carry your cash in – it will look like a badly concealed colostomy bag.

The tent

To do a festival “properly”, you need a tent. You need to go to what is known as an “outdoors shop” and purchase said tent. And you will spend the same amount of money you could have spent on several nights at a boutique hotel.

While in this shop, you will be persuaded to purchase other horrifying essentials such as waterproof shoes, a parka-in-a-pack and – horror of horrors – a fleece.

Your husband tells you that the tent will come in handy “for future camping holidays.” You decide there and then on a complete embargo on any canvas-based sexual activity.

On arrival at the festival, your husband will be unable to put up the tent, despite its “three easy guide poles.” He will stamp on his wizard’s hat in frustration. You will have to look after the children alone as he spends all afternoon putting up the tent. They will demand to go to the silent disco tent, where you will be forced to dance to Justin Bieber while sweating profusely into your parka-in-a-pack.

You will not see a celebrity. They are all at Coachella. In a hotel.

When you finally return to your tent, your husband will be sitting proudly drinking a beer on his neoprene “front porch”. For some reason he is shirtless, further confirming your resolution for a comprehensive tent-based sex amnesty.

Your four-man tent will be too small for you and your children. You will lie awake all night on the damp, hard ground, feeling millipedes crawling into your leather bralet and fantasising about performing a Bobbitt on your husband with a tent peg.

Four days with your husband in a confined space

This is far from ideal. I have heard every story my husband has to tell. I have sniggered kindly at his repertoire of jokes. I do not need to whisper sweet nothings into his ear while we lie awake all night in the sodding tent.

Fire breaks out at Tomorrowland festival in Barcelona

I do not wish to stare into his eyes over a campfire while my children veer dangerously close to third-degree burns. I cannot congratulate him on his fire-making skills or thank him for lending me his fleece. I am trapped, in two fleeces, pretending I like craft cider and desperately trying not to poo for four whole days.

Four days with your children in a field

They will inevitably break into someone’s tent and experiment with their MDMA stash.

The music will be too loud

The music is always too loud. And there’s never anywhere to sit down. And I’m missing Bargain Hunt.

Take my advice. Stay at home. Wear your flower head garland, if you must, in the comfort of your own sitting room. Loop the double duvet over the kitchen table and pretend it’s a tent. Whack on some Billy Joel and party on.

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