Off the peg: I’ll come clean and own up to festival phobia

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.

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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!

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