A Girl’s Guide to Festival BS

As fab as it’s been, festival season is almost finished- now we’re all counting down for the Christmas markets amiright my fellow German-gingerbread-shaped-heart lovers?- so I thought I’d share what I’ve learnt these past few months for anyone making their festival debut next year. (Art by the super talented Jesse Howarth who bossed her AS exams yass)

Fashun: Think Millie Mackintosh at Glastonbury. And then use that as a template for what you shouldn’t wear. Yes designed floral minidresses and faux fur wraps are cute but you won’t be helicoptered back to your VIP Winnebago at the end of every night so you have to approach this practically. Don’t wear anything that ends with ‘suit’ inc bodysuit, playsuit, swimsuit (unless you want your trophy cabinet to be fondled by strangers), jumpsuit, because you’ll have to spend 268 seconds longer in the portaloo and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Except Kanye.

And buy a blady bum bag. My blogging bestie bought one when she went to a festival last year and I remember commenting like lol my grandad would be so proud, but they’re honestly so handy. I bought one from the sport section of H&M so it fits my phone, keys n emergency tampon in perfectly, meanwhile I had my hands free to fight off creepy men.

Creepy Men: obvs NOT ALL MEN are creepy (just in case any meninists found the generalisation triggering) but I encountered a few keen beans while I was bopping to Alesha Dixon at Brighton Pride. Most notably the guy who, let’s just say, was rather sexually excited- to be fair, it must’ve taken quite a lot of effort to get his bone up for the bubblegum pop of ‘Boy Does Nothing’ so moment of silence to appreciate his libido- but then spent the next few tracks rubbing it up my friend and I’s arses. Awareness is everything; this type of person will always be coming to a festival near you but don’t let them put you off going. Jokes on him because we were closer to Alesh than he was.

Portaloos: If you go before you head off to watch some music then you won’t need to pee during the setlist of your fave and get to use the loos when they’re in the best state they’ll be in all night. After about 5:30pm there’s a sudden deterioration in portaloo quality. Loo roll runs out, the hand san is no more and, worst of all, there are no lights so when it gets dark you rather have to find a friend who’s willing to shine her iPhone torch onto your vag so you can see where you’re putting it or just hope that you’re peeing into the right hole. I’d also recommend packing a shewee because female urinals are a thing now!! Yas!

Facial glitter: Probs won’t come off for the next 42 hours. Please don’t feel the need to do that *awkward British whisper* ‘Jess you’ve got… *gestures under eye* something…umm… here’ because funnily enough I put it on my face and therefore I am aware. And when I look in the mirror I don’t even recognise myself, but like Dappy I have no regrets.

Food Stalls: Check what time the food starts running out. There is nothing you want less than to have moshed your way through 5 hours’ worth of ambient trance acts and then upon exiting the crowd to find chips, realise that there are none left. Not even the shit undercooked crinkle cut ones that no one else likes. Trust me here, you don’t want this to be you.

Crowd Confidence: The concept of a festival is actually quite weird. ‘I know,’ someone with lots of money and grass thought one day, ‘let’s use this field, have a stage and watch as thousands of strangers gyrate against each other to the live version of the Spotify hits playlist.’ There is no personal space, no way to escape the smell of your own underarms (can 2010 come back with some Impulse please?), and most notably, no way you’ll be able to see if you constantly let the ‘oh my friends are over there *points to the front row* could I just get to them?’ types in front of you. Nah bitch. You’ll just have to party without them, which you would be doing anyway, because they don’t exist.

Being confident in a crowd is so important in order to have a good time. Dancing along, talking to strangers, taking photos of Dua Lipa for style inspo without worrying if the person behind can still see, all take practise. After all, I didn’t become a bum-bagged, misogynist fighting, chip foraging,  goddess overnight.

So Teamales, how’s your festival season been? Please comment with any stories that you’d like to share (mainly so I can feel better about the dick-bum situ) and here’s a big sloppy drunken festival kiss from me for reading. MWAH.