Claire Kilroyon what makes her a happy camper
Is it possible that I was the only person who smirked at the pictures from last week's Oxegen of hordes of poor souls stuck in the festival mud due to the torrential rain? Or was I alone in experiencing a moment of satisfaction as I watched the footage of mud-encrusted persons of indeterminate gender queuing to get the hell out of the recent Glastonbury festival asap? Doubt it.
Don't get me wrong. I love Glastonbury, the TV show, but this was more than satisfaction: this was vindication. See, I knew all along I was right not to go, right to not even aspire to go. So happy was I with my decision, that I wondered if, conversely, I really felt I ought to have gone. And I began to feel guilty because I hadn't.
Guilty? My non-attendance at campsite-centric music festivals doesn't damage my lungs, or force children in developing nations to work 14-hour days. Guilt in this context made no sense, but guilt it was.
I've been to one campsite festival in my life, the Trip to Tipp, or Féile. I slept in a tent that was missing two poles, in a pool of microwavable custard which I'd gone beyond cleaning up. There was one tap nailed to a plank in the field - I mean campsite - servicing the thousands staying there. The gardaí kept checking the contents of everyone's matchboxes. Hey kids, we know your tricks! Travellers hocked us bottles of Coke that were years out of date.
Worst of all, we stood in the rain listening to Bryan Adams, so I can't even justify the experience in terms of the music (though I seem to remember that Christy Moore was an eye opener). A sizable proportion of those present had no interest in the bands anyway, but were there solely to get off their heads. All in all, it was the Death of Art. And yet I feel guilty for not doing it all again.
Electric Picnic, now. They've affixed the word boutique to assure us that It's For Ladies, yet the negative associations of past festivals persist. I concoct panic- excuses not to put my body through it. My dog ate the ticket. I'm making my communion that week. When Electric Picnic sold out quickly in 2006, I thought: Thanks be to God, I mean, Dang, I'm so disappointed.
The line-up this year is exceptional. OK, I finally conceded, I'm in. Put me down for the Sunday; it should've calmed down by then. Then I saw the small print: there is only one type of ticket, which is the full weekend camping ticket. There are no day tickets. The campsite portal in my head swung open, offering a glimpse of a bleak, joyless place.
If my best friend announced she was getting married but that it would take three days and I'd have to stay in a campsite, I would tell her where to go. And she's my best friend. I know it's a wonderful festival, and I support the endeavour wholeheartedly, but I'd rather be sent to the Gaeltacht than endure the tent thing again.
Not that I needed to worry.
The Electric Picnic sold out immediately. Dang.
Claire Kilroy's second novel, Tenderwire, is out in paperback from Faber
