Festivals are often marketed as no-holds barred blowouts of controlled anarchy where the booze flows freely and the chances of being within drink-throwing distance of your favourite singer increases exponentially. Shrug the world from your shoulders, bellow a medley of your favourite tunes into a stranger’s ear, and to hell with what the world thinks of your selfie stick, your vuvuzela and your ten-foot-high neon flag that reads ‘who’s gunna carry the boats?’

Yet the average music three-dayer is a contested space drawing in thousands of visitors, each of whom have competing expectations of what a ‘fun time’ means. Within this cesspool of civilisation, there are topless lads chugging pints, bikini-loving girls sunning themselves, quiet goths skulking in the shade, tired parents relieved to escape their kids for a day, and (every now and again) music fans waiting to hear their favourite bands. Across decades, I’ve experienced both electrifying and misery-inducing outdoor ultra-sensory binges, so here’s some advice from someone who’s weathered the frontlines of festival-going and lived to tell the tale. 

One of the biggest pitfalls at any all-day event is what researchers have called the ‘merry to munted spectrum’, which has tried and failed to calculate the correct number of alcoholic beverages to consume before security are legally bound to escort you from the premises. A case in point is my long-term friend Stevie. Having spent more than £700 on travel, accommodation and tickets to see The Who perform at Hyde Park, he drank too much early doors and fell asleep beneath a tree before Roger Daltrey even appeared onstage. When later asked if he enjoyed himself, he philosophically replied ‘maybe. I wasn’t there at the time.’ Anyway, the price of two pints of lager at a music festival could get you on the housing ladder, so grab some water in between booze to both keep you on your feet and save some cash. 

Alongside the pub bores who spend their day queuing for drinks, there are the phone-scrollers who wait hours for the main act and, despite being offered a carnival’s worth of activities, hang aimlessly about, a pursuit which is free at your local park. Even the most mainstream festivals are awash with interesting bands. Don’t be shy about unshackling yourself from your pals to explore a few small stages. 

Then there are those who cling to the notion that festivals are not communal love-ins but opportunities for territorial expansionism which allow their cohort to bully people from their hard-earned viewing spot (I blame Thatcher, but let’s not get into that here). Families are the worst for this behaviour. For example, while I was patiently waiting for a headliner, a spawn of mum, dad and two teenage sons materialised around me. Slowly but persistently the mother began to nudge her elbows into my ribs, her jagged limb a persistent pendulum against my ailing frame. I stood firm. As the band began, she held her phone in front of my face to record them then said to her son, motioning to me, ‘just push him out of the way.’ Her son politely told his mum to stop embarrassing herself. Remember, your family may be the glint in your eye but they’re mere specks of dust to everyone else. 

You may have spotted a dominant theme here among this ever-mounting cascade of gripes, grievances, and calls for an overthrow of the neoliberal technocratic hellscape: if you want to make the most of your next festival, be kind to your neighbour and don’t be afraid to try something new. As a man once screamed at me after unwittingly dislocating my shoulder in a mosh pit: ‘we’re all here to have a good time, mate. Enjoy yourself.’