I suppose the idea behind a festival is to enjoy summer with a few beers while listening to some of your favourite bands.  The reality of it is pretty far from that.  First off, there’s the weather.  I’ve been lucky in that in the four years I’ve been to T In The Park it’s only rained on one day.  If it does rain, you’re in trouble – not dressed properly, the chances are you’ll probably end up with pneumonia or some hideous fungal foot infection known only to those who served in the ‘Nam.  Even if you are dressed properly it’s still a pretty miserable experience.  

Beware of relentless queuing.  There is one for everything: getting in, beer tokens, food, transport – you name it, there’s a queue.  Valuable time is wasted, waiting for the simplest of things.  Half an hour for a toilet?!  Ha!  I shouldn’t even mention the toilets.  For the lads it’s not so squirmish, assuming that you can brave overflowing urinals, but girls need an hour to spare.  I’ve never had the misfortune to use a portaloo at a fest, but I can only imagine how bad they are. 

The money made from festivals must be phenomenal as well; you need an asbestos wallet to keep up with all the shelling out you need to do.  Aside from the cost of the fest ticket itself, everyone seems to be at the trough.  There are costs for buses/trains to the festival and after queuing for the time it takes for a new ice age to complete, you can look forward to seriously over-priced beer.  I’m forgetting the food vendors too, who should really be wearing Dick Turpin masks as they flog you three chips and a frazzled object d’art masquerading as a sausage for the equivalent of a bank loan.  Remember, you’re putting their kids through university. 

Then there is the music itself.   Sound at festivals can be dodgy to say the least and if it’s a blustery day it can be like trying to listen to a record in a wind tunnel as snatches of music are swept away in the breeze.  Tents are better but they pack out easily and knowing your luck you’ll probably end up, like me, standing in the only available spot which is, conveniently, next to the festival equivalent of a Kray twin. 

Actually, my most bizarre moment this year was watching Ocean Colour Scene with a guy who looked like the Scottish equivalent of Mad Frankie Fraser, a middle aged bloke with a skinhead haircut.  But then, looks are deceiving.  While I was expecting a hatchet to be buried between my shoulder blades at any moment, he was a genuinely nice guy whose  mum had bought him a ticket. 

Finally, there’s the bumping.  This happens at most gigs but it seems to be magnified to the nth degree at festivals.  More than once at a fest I’ve been driven to the verge of a random killing spree as a train of roughly 48 people push past to get to the front, despite an obvious space next to you.  The same 48 people are always the bastards who push past again 10 minutes later as they decide they’re not going to stay for the whole set.  

OK, so it’s not all bad.  Essentially, you’re at the festival for the music and on this it can deliver.  The best thing about fests is the variety of bands on offer and if you look at it this way then it does offer value for money.  Any time I’ve been to one, I have always come back with a buzz of new bands playing in my head and given that it would normally cost loads to see the headliners alone, the pain of going seems justified. 

There are also, I would have to admit, moments when (fuelled with expensive beer or not) bands can suddenly leap from the ordinary to the life affirming.  It’s a feeling you often get at festivals and without sounding like an age old hippy, it might be to do with the communal experience.  Whatever it is, although every year I say I won’t do it again, I’m always back for more of the same.  I think it’s something they put in the beer…