COACHELLA kicked off the world’s festival calendar last week, alerting everyone to the fact that the next three months are going to be chock-a-block with ticket touts and trips in tents.
There are film festivals, book festivals, music festivals, science festivals, beer festivals, even food festivals, and I haven’t breached the city’s boundaries with that rundown.
While this may be music to the ears of the masses, it’s a prospect that quite frankly gives me the willies.
I’m a festival phobe. It’s something I’ve been hiding for years for fear of being socially black-listed. I hate being in a crowd, can’t stand queueing for the loo and loud music makes me want to leave any venue, indoors or out.
I finally admitted it to myself two years ago when I was at T in the Park. Being stuck in a field filled with the fresh scent of ammonia burning the grass while inebriated loons bumped, spilled and regurgitated around me was enough to make me come clean.
If I want to be knee-deep in human faeces, I’ll throw caution to the wind this summer and let the baby loose around the house sans nappy. At least that way no-one is charging me for the pleasure of ruining my coveted clothes collection.
Oh to be 28 and middle aged. Bliss!