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9th July 2018
09:47pm BST
A stranger, at some point over the course of the weekend, is going to materialise right in the centre of your friend group.
They'll hang around for at least 12 hours before anyone notices, all assuming that they're a friend of someone else. He'll fit in like a dream, saying just enough when it's necessary, but fading into obscurity when it seems as though he might be discovered.
When you figure out that the imposter doesn't belong, it's a tricky situation. You're going to have to hold a quick meeting between yourselves and your friends to decide what to do with him, like when a stray dog follows you home.
He'll plead innocence like it's his job, pretending he's tragically been separated from his own mates with no way of making contact, then trying to win you over with flattery like "I just thought you guys seemed cool" and "I would die for any one of you right now, I would literally take a bullet."
After a lot of deliberating, you'll probably decide to keep him. He's no trouble, in fact, he's a bit of banter. With that decision, you've been played. This guy turned up to the festival alone and wormed his way into your heart.
Congratulations, you played yourself. He is your personal belonging now. Good luck trying to remember a time when he wasn't in your life.
Oi oi, gather your spare tent pegs because the Absolute Fucking Festival Legend is here and he hasn't got the proper items to securely pitch his tent.
This is actually Deano's first festival, not that you'd notice because he's so goddamn comfortable with the entire thing. He's brought a variety of costumes and props to see him through the weekend, which range from deep cultural appropriation to light cultural appropriation.
In case it's not quite clear yet, Deano is a massive legend. He's going to have tinnies for breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea and supper. He will walk around naked until security apprehends him. Deano? He just doesn't care, mate. He's a rogue vagabond who simply cannot be tamed.
He'll likely to come to your attention as you're wading your way through the campsite one afternoon. You'll overhear Deano's hype man saying "Roll up, roll up, come see the amazing Deano drink a full two-litre carton of milk in 20 seconds."
Out of curiosity, you'll veer towards the medium-sized crowd that has gathered just in time to see a human man vomit the entire contents of a tw0-litre carton of milk all over himself. It'll come up quicker than it goes down and that harrowing image of his bloodshot eyes staring as milk comes out his mouth and nose in perfect unison will stick with you for the entire duration of the festival.
"What a legend," you'll think to yourself on the long and sobering journey home.
Step aside if you wouldn't mind, we've got an experienced festival attendee here and he needs to get through the crowds so he can get to the highly publicised Secret Rave first.
Jay has been to this exact festival every year for the past four years and he's got the wristbands to prove it, in case you fancy querying his claims. Not only has he got the art of both drinking and sleeping in a field down to a tee, he also knows more about music than you could even imagine. Truly, in every aspect beside not being a dickhead, he surpasses every other festival attendee.
Jay isn't quiet about it either, he's got the know-how to make this The Best Weekend Of Your Life and he's sure as shit going to tell you all about it.
You'll meet Jay in one of the quieter tents, where he's got as little background noise to drown out his boasts as possible. "Was a different vibe last year, not as commercial," he'll say as he sips a lukewarm can of Fosters that he snuck through security beneath his butt cheeks.
He's seen this exact Kasabian set four times this year, but somehow, "...it doesn't get any less magic. Serge just gets it, he's a proper geezer." Jay has built his entire personality around the fact that he goes to the same music festival once a year, so go easy on him.
Let him have this. He doesn't have anything else when he returns home to his parents' semi-detached house in Burnley. He quit his job because they wouldn't give him the time off. Jay is a survivor.
Nemo is, at his very core, a filthy and disgusting bastard.
He doesn't see the point in hygiene on a good day, so going to a festival where washing over the course of four days is optional suits him beyond belief. He's praying for torrential rain so he can partake in his favourite past time of all - covering his entire body and all those nearby in mud.
He didn't even wash the morning of the festival as he'd been out the night before and barely made the bus in time. Nemo is a not built for the modern world. He belongs in a time when people used to fling their toilet business out the window onto the street and pedestrians below.
His tent falls apart on the first night and Nemo spends the rest of the weekend sleeping out in the open air atop a sea of cans, condom wrappers, syringes and crisp packets. You'll be rudely awoken by Nemo one morning as the dawn shadow perfectly highlights his naked bottom taking a shit directly on the side of your tent.
It'll seem like a confusingly poetic dream until you realise that it's reality. You can get mad at Nemo, but it'll never register. His mind is a thousand miles away, doing precisely what he's doing right now, but in a more welcoming community. Why's he called Nemo? Because he is a clown (fish).
The genuine description of the above iStock image is "Happy young man is enjoying himself at a music festival" and that's precisely what Hugo wants to achieve at a festival.
He's only turned up for the Instagram posts and guaranteed 105 likes when he posts a picture of the campsite with the stolen and exhausted caption "Looks in-tents lol." Hugo got his ticket for free and is staying in some bullshit VIP area that openly uses the word 'glamping' as a selling point. He does not care for music or people, just #ad #spon and #likeforlike. Hugo hasn't heard of any of the headliners, except Kendrick Lamar because he sometimes appears on his Spotify playlists.
When you're queuing at the bar for an emergency beer that is anything other than lukewarm (for a lavish treat), Hugo will shove past holding up his luminous and high quality wristband shouting 'We are VIP. we don't queue. That's what the wristband says.'
He'll be served far more than the maximum permitted amount of drinks and obnoxiously turn around for a second batch to save the excruciating four second journey of walking to the bar without having to queue again. He'll bring his own personal photographer to the festival and go home after a few strategic outfit changes and photographs are secured.
From the comfort of his own home, Hugo will seed out the images over the course of the weekend to make it seem as though he's been there the whole time. Fuck Hugo. Flower crown wearing prick.
