I really hate tents. They spoil festivals for me, I understand that they are what many may class as the ultimate experience of a festival, part of the fun, getting in the thick of it etc etc. But I despise them wholeheartedly. I hate the temperature when you wake up being akin to waking in a mud filled oven, gasping for air as you clamber for the zip, the dampness that permeates even the priciest promises of dryness and warmth. The riskiness of leaving all of your preciously accumulated festival asos marketplace clothes in something that is no more than a glorified supermarket bag for life. Yes this is pedantic and extremely precious, but if you’ve ever been grossed out by club toilets/public toilets/have any standards of hygiene, how can you survive? No manner of hand sanitiser will right those wrongs.
Most of all I hate sharing tents with people, I would be bold enough to say that there is no one I truly love enough to share a tent with – these are cramped pyramids where friendships are ended, you see the side of people you really, really never wanted to. I know of someone who camped with his best friend at a festival and was unaware that he would also be sharing with his array of bodily functions. I have another friend who returned to theirs to find their camping buddy passed out on top of their safe haven at 4am in the pouring rain- with no hope of resurrection of either parties. My friends and I have often resorted to sleeping in cars as an alternative, Note also that tents are not a CHOICE, but instead a necessity, you don’t see Jay-Z pitching up his Vango 500 because he just loves being that bit closer to nature. They’re cheap and easy, but on a weekend of hangovers and comedowns when you would value nothing more than a warm shower and a comfy nights sleep – maybe looking at alternatives is the answer, just to make the pain of returning (once finally locating your polyester cocoon of nightmares) a little bit easier.
I think its time that people realised the novelty may be wearing thin, maybe we are a little less able to ignore the portaloos and the stench of other people as we crawl reluctantly out of our adolescence, or maybe I’m just ready for a winnebago and the epitome of middle aged boutique camping. Gladly.