Opinion: My tip for pop festivals – stay home and have Revels instead

I suppose I’m out of step. How I wince on seeing television clips of crowds singing along. Some sit on their partner’s shoulders, or perhaps the shoulders of a stranger. One cannot imagine they are fussy.

You say: “It’s a celebration, a coming together. Get a grip, Roberto.” Point taken. But something about the crowd’s adulation of the performers discombobulates the stern observer of life. It’s the loss of self-control, the debasement of dignity. Then there’s the manipulation. Even at concerts back in the day, when hectoring singers instructed the audience to clap along, I declined.

Once, at (unwillingly) an Abba event, I was the only person not standing, though I had an excuse, being sound asleep, having fortified myself too bibulously beforehand. True, apropos crowds and adulation, I attend soccer tournaments occasionally, but my behaviour is circumspect. I don’t say anything and certainly don’t sing. Once, in the line of duty, I attended T in the Park, which was awful.

I can’t remember any of the acts – certainly there was no prog rock – and when I visited a tented area, a disgruntled mob formed, suspecting I was an undercover policeman. In retrospect, the three-piece suit and sedate blue tie were wrong clothing choices. The truncheon brought for self-defence probably didn’t help either.

Oddly enough, had one of the mob said, “I say, sir, would you like to smoke some cannabis?”, I’d have said yes, for the nostalgia trip. But I’d have pooh-poohed pills and powders. I support altering the mind, but prefer to use a glass, where one’s progress can be monitored and quantified, enabling the practitioner to say: “Right, I’ve had six pints. Now to move on to the nips.

And, after that, a spot of lunch.” Then there are the bathroom facilities at festivals. Since having half my prostate oot, I need no longer micturate every five minutes. But, still, I like to know any cludgies nearby are clean and sparkling. One reads horror stories about these at festival sites.

You cannot make a pleasant occasion of the experience either, as taking in a book or magazine over which to linger would occasion exasperation among those in the massive queue waiting to come in after you. No, it’s all too frightful. So, while persons of an insensitive nature attend pop festivals, I shall sit at home alone, listening to Gentle Giant on the headphones, a bag of Revels by my side.

Though I dislike the word “revels”.

Down with nature

Nature hates us. Nature hates everything. This week, His Majesty’s Press has been telling tales of how, amid duplicitous days of blue skies and sunshine, the Lord is sending platoons of ticks, midges, “dracula” horseflies and even jellyfish to torment us. One nature writer warned also about seven common plants – giant hogweed, wolfsbane, bracken, nettles, English ivy, laburnum, and black henbane – that are jolly keen on harming us.

It’s a jungle out there. At the time of dictating this column, I cannot go out shortsleeved in public as midges have made my forearms a bloody mess. The carnage isn’t caused directly by the bites but by my scratching, often unconsciously, the resultant itches. Can’t help it. Imagine my alarm, therefore, on reading that the wee swine haven’t even got started yet this year.

There’s a new, bigger batch due when heat and wetness merge. As if that weren’t enough, in the last fortnight I’ve found three ticks on my torso. All came from my “garden”, and they’ve been worse than usual as some of my grass is still uncut after No Mow May. Excuses: I was away for a bit, and often have to retreat from horticultural exertions anyway because of the midges.

These ticks are actually spiders that sit on the tips of long grass and attach themselves to you as you breenge past. They’re tiny, and you need a magnifying glass to confirm them, usually by seeing their ghastly legs flap about as they feed on your blood. You must remove them with a special twist-and-lift tool.

Discouragingly, one paper warned that these little monsters were also increasing, bringing the threat of debilitating Lyme Disease, if you don’t spot them and wheech them oot quickly. Marvellous.

At least I haven’t been attacked yet by reportedly rampant blood-sucking horseflies, whose bites are painful and can require hospital treatment. There’s no point waddling into the sea for relief either, because record warm temperatures have proved a boon for stinging jellyfish and poisonous algal blooms.

It’s blooming ridiculous. Nature is out of control, and it’s time that human societies – the decent and the mad – united to wage war on it. If we must “other” something in order to bring humanity together, let it be the horrible planet on which we are forced to live.

Boy-racing fatal for the Pharaoh

Tutankhamun died after drink-driving in his chariot, according to one Egyptologist. The famous pharaoh died around the age of 18, when his leg became infected after an accident while speeding. Said it before: males should not be allowed to drive till they’re 40. Coulda saved Tut’s life had the Egyptians enacted such a wise law.

Talking down

It’s well known that, when tradesmen come, middle-class people try to sound working-class, talking about fitba’ and cock-fighting. Now, research shows they also deploy practical terminology, often something misheard on telly. “I think it’s the anorexic flange myself, ken?” Tradesmen wish they’d shut up and offer peppermint tea and avocado
on toast.

Droid to avoid

A dog walker in Milton Keynes has claimed he and his pet were attacked by a Co-op delivery droid. A what now? Sounds like Star Trek Wars is becoming reality at last. Anyway, Brian Dawson said the droid “seemed to have a mind of it its own” as it went radge. Mind you, these days, delivering is stressful work.

Foot fault

Now they’re telling us we’ve been walking all wrong, causing back problems and stiff joints. Fitness expert Joanna Hall says we should push forward off our back foot rather than pulling with our front. I see. Soon as I can be bothered I shall try this … in the privacy of my own home.

Proof positive

Aw naw. Scientists say they’ve proof that positive thinking can reduce chronic pain and illness. The phenomenon of pain has its sources in the medial prefrontal cortex, which I understand is somewhere in your heid. Positive thinking produces dopamine that can dull the pain sensations. Must be the same stuff they put in whisky.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald.