Festivals are the best, people are the worst. It’s a conundrum that’s perplexed us for years, yet there is something to be done about this seemingly insurmountable catch-22. Keep this guide with you at the next festival you attend: it’s the only sure-fire way to avoid these 11 shades of wanker you see at every single one.
Sad dads who leer at girls in short denim skirts
Dad, can you just… for fuck’s sake, can you at least pretend to watch the band? No-one wants to stay in your tent tonight, and mum says you have to stop calling her. Steve doesn’t like it, and he’s a black belt in Taekwondo.
Talkers who talk through every set
Oh, lovely. Having a little catch-up are we? Enjoying a natter? While I am deeply invested in the epic saga of what Holly said to Gaz when she was off her mash at Shangri-La last night, I did actually drop over 250 quid on the privilege of shivering up my knees in mud in this Godforsaken trench. On the plus side, I hear Steven Spielberg’s interested in the film rights to your ripping yarn.
Girls in native American headdresses
It’s not even about cultural appropriation, it just looks shit.
Trendy mums and dads with a baby wearing ear defenders
Look at them, glass of Prosecco in one hand, pram in the other. No-one’s saying your life should end when you have kids, but fun should. Fun is on an 18-year suspended sentence for you now.
My God, man, you look like you’re cast out of marble. Is that normal? Is that what a human body is supposed to look like? I’ve spent the last three days filling mine with suspicious substances and a lethal cocktail of stodgy hangover grub and gassy lager. I’m essentially a fat suit stuffed with sand paper and sawdust and nitrous oxide. This thing’s gonna blow any minute!
The moody steward
Cheer up, pal, it might never happen. Well, no, it probably will happen. Miles Kane and Alex Turner probably will writhe up against each other during their Last Shadow Puppets set and someone probably will have a little weep when LCD Soundsystem do ‘All My Friends’, because that’s what always happens. You’re at a music festival! There is literally someone whose job it is to scoop bodies off train tracks. Next stop: your happiness! Choo-choo!
Lads on a stag do
The only way that morph suit will ever be funny is if you happen to suffocate on the spandex and they have to peel you out of it like a Peperami.
Like, posh people used to be all right, really, didn’t they? In their gillets and their bright red Jack Wills chinos, they were a bit like the Queen: sort of annoying in principle, but at least they brightened the place up. Yet posh people now look and act like the rest of us. They go to festivals and wear ripped jeans. They drink cider! These people are the enemy within, which is only okay if they’re within my tent, inducting me into the Illuminati.
You know, the bloke who’s been given a hi-vis jacket for the weekend and suddenly thinks he’s the most important man in the world. Mate, you’re not even the most important person in this particular section of a field in rural Dorset. You’re not a confusingly charismatic dictator who gets to shout at everyone and tell them what to do. You’re basically a shepherd, and they’re historically quite humble folk.
Unless you’re juggling live hand grenades, I’m not arsed at all.
Got your lanyard, Grimmy? Ah, good. Where’s Alexa? Oh – there she is. Can’t wait to hear all about this on the Radio 1 Breakfast Show on Monday morning, as an icy comedown smothers me like a greedy relative at their wealthy grandmother’s bedside.