All the rage

Festival rage: What is it? You've been queuing for half an hour to use the only decent-smelling Portaloo in the field and as a result missed the one band you shelled out 60 to see. You wouldn't mind, but it took an hour and three-quarters to get into the venue - what with all the traffic restrictions you left the motor at home - and now you are stuck at the back.

From where you're standing those Red Hot Whatevers look like excitable ants on acid. It might be OK if weren't for those rude people making human pyramids. You thought that was against festival regulations these days.

You are sure you enjoyed these things once. Does this increasing frustration with the litter and the quality of the burgers mean you are getting old? Determined to enjoy yourself, you attempt to dance but slip on somebody's deflated hammer. Young girls with diamond belly studs laugh at you. Then it starts to rain.

The symptoms? You can't quite bear the thought of a festival- free life, so you pack a survival suitcase when the occasion arises. It contains everything from insect repellent to suncream, fold-up chairs to lunch boxes crammed with couscous and rocket. Young folk who pack nothing but a pair of short shorts and attitude give you funny looks, but you don't care. You. Are. Having. Fun!

The cure? Observe the people coming in and out of the VIP section. Suggest politely, out of earshot of the security guards, that they share their laminated pass or wristband with you. Bribe them if necessary. You hear they have real toilets in there. Seriously. Fancy Portaloos with brass fittings and a bar that serves unlimited free cosmopolitans.

If you remortgage the house you might scrape enough for a VIP pass to see Madonna, but, really, you think you might just wait for it to come out on DVD.

Share it with us by e-mailing rage@irish-times.ie