NEVER mind Bruce Springsteen knocking out an eight-hour set at Glastonbury (okay, it was closer to three, but he still played well past the festival's official bedtime, which incurred a fine for organisers and meant he had to forego his cocoa). And anyway, two hours of the Boss would seem like a lifetime – there's only so much blue-collar, three-chord pensioner rock this white-collar girl can take.
Then there was Dame Shirley Bassey in her sparkly monogrammed wellies, who nearly crashed her chopper trying to get out of the place. I can empathise with the Cardiff crooner. The mere thought of going to a rock festival, even T in the Park with Bjor
n Again, brings me out in a nasty rash. All that mud and the chemical toilets. The oh-so-right-on parents who bring their children to get henna-ed and cornrowed to within an inch of their lives and paint their faces à la Woodstock. It's the Noughties, people, not the Sixties. Your falafel-eating antics aren't kidding anyone – we all know you have an iPhone, a plasma-screen TV and a four-wheel drive back in the Home Counties.
And I couldn't bear all those smelly, unwashed people. (I'm referring, of course, to myself after a couple of days with no shower and trying to master the dark art of the She Pee – in case you don't know what that is, it's a funnel-like contraption that allows ladies to urinate standing up).
You see? It's all so dreadfully undignified. I know it's one of those "things you should do before you're too deaf and incontinent to be able to make the journey", but still, I'd rather just sit at home and watch it on the telly. In fact, I'm not even particularly bothered about doing that any more.
An old flatmate once decided she must "do" Glastonbury while she was still young enough to maintain a heartbeat in a mosh pit. I packed her off at Waverley station, only to welcome back a diseased and deformed version of her former self a few days later. It seems she'd picked up a rather unpleasant infection in her eye from sleeping on the ground, and the left side of her face had swelled up to twice its normal size. Still, she insists she had a great time.
Much more recently (this year, in fact), a friend's husband was treated to festival tickets for his birthday. All was going swimmingly until he slipped in the toilets after the last band had played, severed a tendon in his finger and now has to have an operation to fix it. Rock 'n' roll, eh? And heavens only knows what he actually slipped on.
My only experience of a music festival was at the Wickerman, in the beating heart of Dumfries and Galloway. I'm told there were some bands playing, but I couldn't in all honestly tell you who they were. I spent the afternoon in the champagne tent, then the evening in the dance tent. I started falling asleep around 11pm (doesn't everyone go to bed around that time?) and was promptly offered a little pick-me-up by a friendly couple from Glasgow. I declined, of course, and opted for 40 winks instead.
Which makes me think there's a missed business opportunity here. What with Springsteen and Crosby, Stills and Nash scheduled for outdoor summer gigs in Scotland, it would appear to me this is an ageing audience. So how about a nice little afternoon event, somewhere under cover, in case it rains, and with a proper floor, so we don't ruin our shoes? Maybe a nice cup of tea halfway through and some scones and jam for sustenance, then a sweet sherry before the Handicab comes to take us home?
We'll call it Fogey-fest. And Brucie (Forsyth – not Springsteen) will be the headliner.
