THE GRUNGE era wasn’t quite, ahem, “in bloom” when my father was courting my mother, but it was looming close enough to taint every single photograph documenting their early romance.
My sister Helena is especially gone on one truly gross image depicting our parents, caked in muck, dressed like lumberjacks during a launderette strike, on their Trip to Tipp. Even as children, we took one look and decided that this would never, ever happen to us.
Luckily, we live in a nation that could not agree more. The days when Irish people would put up with famines or roving packs of Wolfe Tone hounds or standing around in muddy fields waiting for Radiohead are over. Nowadays, Helena and myself can head off to Oxegen knowing that, as EU citizens, we can expect the same rights and privileges as ticketholders for Land and Sky yurts at Glastonbury.
It’s simple, really. No matter how much I want to hear Arcade Fire, I know they will sound a whole lot better if I have access to low-carb alternatives, Pilates instruction and a UV nail dryer. And no matter how much I want to sleep out under the stars, I know I will rest better if there is a guaranteed 100 per cent spruce cabin between me and them.
This year, I will appreciate the comforts of my specially designed festival cabin – fridge, memory foam mattress, i-Pod dock, FlatScreen TV – even more than usual. There is, as I discovered during 2009’s Blur set, a fine line between civilisation and non-civilisation. Step outside the VIP village enclosure (all it takes is one wrong turn) and – bam! – you’re in scumbag territory.
Imagine my terror last July, when, during a routine trip to the mocha stand, I found myself surrounded by Northern Irish (!) people. Now I know we’re not supposed to be frightened of the Nordies anymore, but the truth is, if someone is bellowing on that stretch of street outside the Brown Thomas car park, it’s either a nordie complaining about the prices or a dangerous, homeless heroin addict. This is not in the ads for Oxegen. The promoters should consider putting “Northerners walking around without supervision” in the fine print at least. I escaped unharmed, but not before some of them tried to communicate with me. Sometimes, late at night, I can still hear that chilling “nar, nar, nar” sound.
Now I know what youre thinking. What’s a music festival unless youre rubbing shoulders with the hoi-polloi? But I say, why settle? The days when backstage benefits were the preserve of Bono and Lord Henry Mountcharles are long gone. Now anyone, for the right price, can have the Access-All-Areas experience. Hopping between European festivals, I’ve improved my mind, amassed a sizeable music collection – 138 tracks! – and helped the environment by living in luxury teepees and using car charger outlets for my GHD.
Looking back at that early picture of mummy and daddy, I feel so bad for them. Oh, well. At least this summer, they’ll be holed up in their own Oxygen Pod Pad with all their golfing pals. And not a puddle in sight.
