It’s festival time, and after being on an enforced Zoom call for nearly three years, everyone is, understandably, going a bit nuts.
This summer, thousands of people will don a pair of neon shades and a bucket hat, get hammered on £10 beer and joyously contract Covid from the armpit of a guy in an H&M Hawaiian shirt. And why not? It’s what we’ve all been waiting for! Also some bands will be on, but WHATEVER.
I recently attended a music festival in Barcelona, and it’s good to know they’re pretty much the same as they ever were, except instead of finding a bottle of wee next to the stage, you’ll find it next to an empty hand sanitiser station (which is also, coincidentally, covered in wee).
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The crowds are the usual mix of braying guys and girls in various states of undress and inebriation, one bored baby wearing ear defenders, middle-aged men in band shirts who refuse to use the word vinyl as a noun, and the occasional drag queen or trendy Ibiza grandma off her head on ‘life’.
But I’m not sure there’s ever been this much fuss about festivals before – not until this year’s Glastonbury, anyway, which belatedly celebrated its 50th anniversary and got BBC blanket coverage of the kind usually reserved for the death of a senior royal.
If you switched on the radio in the week prior, the build-up was particularly excruciating, as it was clear nothing at all was happening apart from some people in hi-vis vests putting up scaffolding and overpriced food trucks called ‘Noodly Boodly’ slowly reversing onto a patch of grass.