Crowd Control - Saturday July 17, 1999

My fondest memories of rock festivals are not of a mud-soaked teepee, henna tattoos, tie-dye, the Orb and visions of frogs climbing out of fingernails. Nor are they of li steria- burgers, whistles, moshing to the Levellers, body-piercing, bungee-jumping and tussles with the police. They are mainly of the nice, cosy B&Bs that I tend to stay in for the duration.

Call me a sad, middle-class twit (many do) but: a) I hate camping with a passion; b) I do not respond well to Mediloos; and c) I like to wake up in the morning to a nice cup of tea rather than some loved-up raver kissing my face, or a tree-hugger trying to massage my aura. If you do dip out of the whole tent thing (and I urge you to), then there are a few key things you must remember in order to avoid derision from your fellow festival-goers. Do not at any point show your key attached to the enormous fob with Flowery Nook Bed & Breakfast inscribed on it. This will immediately give the game away. Do not leave Flowery Nook with pristine wellies - rub some mud, hummus and bits of grass into them to give yourself that authentic "Glasto" look.

I know it's tempting, but don't succumb to the super range of body lotions and potions available to you at Flowery Nook B&B. This will make you smell nice and instantly arouse suspicion. Also avoid using shooting sticks to sit on, picnic hampers and tartan rugs. This has got me into trouble before. Do not say "jolly", "super&aquot; or "righto". Call everyone "man" and don't ask for a gin and tonic at drinks stalls. Finally, do not at any point go up to the police and congratulate them on doing a marvellous job.

 
When I think of rock festivals, two images come to mind. First, the sight of Mel's exposed Shepherd's (Bush) after a vicious de-bagging campaign led by her five-year-old nephew, Ziggy, at the Phoenix Festival. Second, the rain-soaked mothership of a gig by tubby gyrator George Clinton and his fancy-dressed outfit, the Parliament of Funk. One of those sights I would pay good money to see again. To say that rock festivals are the spirit of the new generation is akin to suggesting that a Freedom of Thought campaign should be sponsored by Diet Coke. Our definitions of popular culture come from the lazy hands of journalists; music isn't rock 'n' roll - rock 'n' roll is comedy, cookery, crochet. Would Jimi Hendrix have donned a pinny and wilted spinach on Can't Cook, Won't Cook? Would Janis Joplin have growled her way through a Changing Rooms makeover of her Surrey semi? Would Marc Bolan have stared at Charlie's knockers as he discussed a new gazebo for his back garden? (Probably.)

Call me old-fashioned, but the whole point of a festival is that people like me don't go there. I file my books in alphabetical order, I drink Amaretto at the weekends and I enjoy flicking through National Geographic. However, festivals have become exactly the places where thirtysomething saddos like me can congregate. We have everything promoters want - disposable incomes, cars, CD players. We have no self-awareness left - we'll hum along to those platinum-selling, million-dollar anthems, and buy those compilation albums, and drink the heavily-branded alcopop of the day. And that's exactly why I'll see you at Reading.