10 reasons I’m glad I’m at home and not at Glastonbury

  • WHAT A SURPRISE! In true British tradition, the heavens have already opened above Somerset. I love tradition, but sharing a sodden tent with half-cut twenty-somethings – even if they are friends – surely cannot compare to a dry double bed, complete with a roof over its head.
  • Having to either dig a hole in the ground or walk half a mile past fortune tellers, used condoms and Greenpeace activists and then queue for a portaloo all so I can go the toilet would probably wear a bit thin.
  • Thanks to digital TV, I have the undervalued ability of flicking through all the performers I want to see without walking halfway across the countryside, all from the comfort of a grass and mud-free sofa.
  • If I stay at home and it does end up pissing down with rain, there is less chance of waking up in a rapidly-growing bog, feeling sick from the cheap cider I would have inevitably drunk the night before whilst my makeshift bed and second pair of boxers drift away from me. All this as I nurse the beginnings of a hangover and mild chlamydia.
  • Think of all that available running water, food, electricity, hard flooring, walls, ceiling and roofing I can enjoy – something I would not be able to do in a field.
  • Who really wants to stand for hours and hours to end the day with a set by Metallica?
  • I’ve never been harassed by a man dressed as a cow getting me to sign up for things in my own house.
  • Drugs? My spice rack can suffice as a legal high, thank you very much.
  • My evenings at home are unlikely to be spent avoiding a 40-year-old’s sweaty armpit in a crowd, whilst at the same time fighting off rowdy students on their holidays who are scrambling to climb people’s shoulders so they can get a better view of an overrated band they can still barely see.
  • The World Cup’s on, isn’t it?
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