Glamping

It’s that time of year where it seems every women’s magazine has the same articles in every one: “Pre-Holiday Boot Camp”, “Bikinis to Suit Your Shape!” and “Festival Fashion”.  Whilst I usually skip over the first two with an Almond Magnum and a strategically-tied sarong, the third one makes me laugh a little bit.  When I see strappy gladiator sandals and jumpsuits suggested as a suitable ensemble for a UK festival, it makes me wonder whether the writers have ever actually been to a festival without staying in a luxury lockable caravan with its own wardrobe, toilet, shower, cleaner and electrical socket for the hair straighteners.  We’re not all Alexa Chung in the VIP area.

Are those SUEDE HEELS? Should've gone for those Wedge Wellies that were on Dragons' Den

I confess I’ve not actually been to that many festivals; despite the fact that I adore live music, I DETEST camping and hassle.  When I was a teen, my parents were adamant that I was too young for festivals and there would be bad people and bad drugs.  By the time I was deemed old enough, it was the year of trench foot at Glastonbury, and looking at the weather forecast I opted to go to my 6^th Form ball.  Some of my friends went though and had their tent broken into and their stuff nicked, and had to wear bin bags with elastic bands over their wellies in an attempt to traverse the rivers of mud and sewage.  But regardless of the unpredictable British weather, now it’s all about looking good – and like the look is 'effortless' (oh the irony) insouciance ('What this? Oh just a little vintage thing I threw on...') as opposed to the practical.

That's more like it

Okay, so the weather was good at Hard Rock Calling in Hyde Park last year (10 mins from home with my own shower and bed, yay!) but the queue for the ladies’ portaloos went on for EVER, probably due to the number of dolly birds wearing playsuits.  When you’re in a stinky box hovering gingerly over a mound of other people’s waste, the last thing you want to do is be unbuttoning and climbing out of your ENTIRE OUTFIT, surely?  Hold breath, dash in, wee, jump out, gag and try to forget about the horrors you’ve just witnessed.  And is that beer that's seeping through your flip flop, or something more sinister...? 

This week’s Grazia even had a page of “Festival Fragrances”, which included a bottle of perfume which cost £120.  As if you’d weigh your rucksack down with that rather than a jumbo bottle of vodka and a can of Impulse!  Maybe I should go along and rob some tents whilst everyone’s bopping to The Saturdays; I’d love a Marc Jacobs bag and a pair of Jimmy Choo Hunter boots...

I thought THIS was what festival fashion was really all about (just say 'No' to drugs, kids!):