Festival Hell

Wet wipe, anyone?

You know what I really fucking hate about the Great British summer? The insidious creep of festivals and festival fashion. These wellies reminded me. until a few years ago, if you stumbled to within even ten miles of the Glasto festival you were considered an unwashed scrote who had fuck all better to do than scramble over Worthy Farm's fences. Now if your summer is devoid of a trip to a festering, fly-caked portaloo you're considered about as fashionable as a kick to the knackers.
Jesus, spare me. Look, if I wanted to stumble about with thousands of bewildered arsewipes while desperate for a hot meal and a quiet dump I'd spend a weekend at Heathrow's terminal five. I as sure as shit wouldn't fork out £100 for the trauma to be soundtracked by Bruce bloody Springsteen as I took a piss in a bottle because the toilets were so far away that they have their own transport system.
All of which means I won't be indulging in the ubiquitous festival fashion either. Christ, from spring onwards shops across the land wedge themselves full of tribal prints, absurd wellies and fucking kagoules. In fact it's become an industry of its own where even if you're choosing hot water and a comfy bed over a summer of sleeping in mud puddles you're still expected to dress as if you've been turfed out of the family home and forced to forage for grubs and worms. 
And what makes me queasier than trodden-on kebab is the way that the middle classes have adopted the festival circuit for its own. Suddenly summer is all about taking Oscar and Amelia for a mind-broadening stint in a 50,000-strong queue for the one portaloo that isn't actually levitating from its own contents. By all accounts this seems to have replaced the annual jaunt to Tuscany which, until a few years ago, was what preoccupied the nation's newspapers. Now said travel features have been replaced with the deeply unappetising must-sees of the hastily knocked up stage three miles down the road. Jesus.
So I'll be fucked if I'll be donning bleached braids and a smear of cow shit this summer. And you as sure as shit won't find me wedged into a crowd of thousands as I flap at my increasingly niffy underparts with the last wet wipe on the site. Instead you'll find me actually enjoying my Great British summer, taking regular showers and laughing at how Oscar and Amelia keep moaning because Glasto's big screens don't feature C-bloody-Beebies. Festival fashion? Of for fuck's sake...