Last weekend a friend of mine cooked a feast of pork belly accompanied by her famous ‘hassleback’ potatoes. Together we ate sumptuous food, drank delicious chilled wine and sat in her peaceful garden laughing, chatting and listening to Glastonbury on the radio. I then headed home where I cleaned my teeth and had a small pee in my clean and fragrant bathroom before nestling down in my insanely comfortable bed wherein I slipped gently into Snoresville without a care in the world…unlike those idiots who actually chose to attend Glastonbury. Fools.

Incase you didn’t go, don’t worry, you missed nothing. You can be rest assured that everyone spent their time drinking warm beer whilst trudging through mud and swill to get to a stage where three lads and a dog bang saucepots together because ‘Jimmy’ overheard some knob in the next tent say they were going to be the next ‘Arctics’. No thank you very much indeed.

Oh it’s true that there was once a time when camping on a floating ocean of earth appealed. I could even tolerate the hippies twirling those weird ‘bit of old stick and hanky things’ around their heads without wanting to force my own head in open flames just so my eyeballs would melt and I would no longer have to look at them. But that time has passed.

However, if you are one of the seemingly gazillion people who head to any one of the equally vast number of festivals that take place every summer then bloody well done you. And if, more than that, you are hoping to indulge in a bit of festival flirting this year, then well done twice! Thrice, even! It’s a wonderful thing. However, there are a set of very clear rules about pulling at such an event and in case you are new to this malarkey I shall list them here – but don’t bother to take it with you unless you are going to laminate it; it’s bound to piss it down at most festivals (Glastonbury being this years shock exception!) and this will become no more than a piece of soggy tissue, much like every other possession you take.

Firstly. Take baby wipes, take toothpaste, take deodorant, take gum. Festivals are not an excuse to turn into apes. Be clean. No matter how many drugs an idiot may have taken your 3-day-old sweaty armpit is not going to be considered attractive.

Ask for a phone number but do not expect to be able to get in touch at any point over the weekend. Phones suddenly regress into pointless little shiny boxes, it takes at least a lifetime, if not two, for a text message to get through. So if you want to meet again over the weekend arrange it there and then.

If you are lucky enough to cop off do not forget that a tent only hides you from sight. No one wants to hear your gropes, particularly the friends camping next to you. You’ll scar them for life, believe me I know this from bitter bitter experience.

If you follow these simple rules your flirtations should score fabulous results.

So, do enjoy this year’s festivals my sadistic and misery loving friends. Personally I plan to spend my summer months sipping cold champagne in, dry, clean comfort.

Much more my style.

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