Back in the days of old and yester year, every July we would go to France on the ferry and fill up the Volvo my father in law loaned us with cheap booze. At 11am, every last Thursday in August I would pop the cork on a bottle of French fizz (bought for 3 quid) and sit in the back of a transit van en route to Reading. No offence intended to Reading as a town. I don’t need to be drunk to go to Reading as a place. I was simply off to Reading Festival. And I always needed to be drunk to go to Reading Festival.
At 3 months pregnant with Ed and when Reading Festival tickets went on sale in 2008, I was convinced, conVINCED I would still be able to go to Reading that year – all 8 months pregnant of me, and be one of those hippy mother types with their bellies painted in to a massive sunshine, or a rainbow, or Elmo from Sesame Street. I would just sit down a lot and take a flask of tea, I said.
What a bloody joke.
After cooking him for 8 months I was on crutches 24/7, hobbling about because of a pelvis condition. I have never been so glad to not spend £200 ever. And I love spending money. It pleases me.
I should have realised I was not earth mother festival go-er based on our base camp at our last festival in 2007. Husband and I had left before The Chilli’s had finished their headlining act, we went back to our family sized 2 room tent (with living room area), got in to our double inflatable bed with duvet and pillows and cursed the youngun’s keeping us awake at 3am. *shakes fist* Our ship had sailed.
It is never this. I don’t know who this lady is but she is a FAKE.
THIS is the truth of it all. And I am going to make it “real” for those of you who have kids but have never been to a festival. You know when kids have been constipated, badly, for days, and then finally, finally finally finally they let rip? THAT. That is the smell. Right there.
I am proud to be a participant at a different kind of music festival. I am a fan of GlastoTelly. I am SofaFest.
But not this year. This year we decided to do something half way. A festival, with music. But with not camping. So we went to Lemonfest.
I loved it I did. Not least because their portaloo’s had anti-bacterial gel dispensers in them. But said festival didn’t come without its own stresses.
First of all – clothes. I had spent the week beforehand panicking about clothing. Not in regards to whether I would look cool or what to wear to make me look thinner, but what clothing would mean the minimum risk of someone elses piss getting on it. Let me explain. Trousers/ Jeans/ Shorts are bad bad bad. You women all know when you use a public loo you hover over it. You don’t SIT ON IT. You hover. You can’t hover with a pair of jeans acting as a tie between your knees. You are forced backwards in to touching the loo with the back of your legs or loosing you balance and falling on it, full bum stylie. A skirt however, is good good GOOD. Lift, reverse, hover, done. You have to think ahead. Fashion is for the young. And the dirty.
Two. Protect yourself. I am not talking safe sexy time. I am talking footwear. Whenever I see anyone at a festival wearing flip flops my stomach lurches. Look around you, people! Be aware of your surroundings and your company! Look at the boys wee-ing around the back of the burger van! That “Oh it’s just a bit of mud” will never ever “just be mud”. It just has to be WELLIES, every time. Look after your trotters and they will thank you.
My wellies were my Kevin Costner. They were my Bodyguard. Or my Footguard, which BTW would be an excellent film and sponsored by Crocs Wellies. I will always love them. Oooooooo-oooooh. I will always love them.