Squatting The STD’s Away

When an event rises (whatever it may be), it causes an instant impulse of “I MUST GO” and no real thinking goes into the organisation of the nitty gritty. It is an impulse of where money is no object, you’ll swim across the English Channel to get to it and you’ve convinced yourself that you’ll have a body like Beyoncé by the time the event arrives.You always think of the end result: Seeing your favourite band member breathing before your very eyes, laying on the beach with a Malibu (other alcoholic beverages available) or presenting your marbled Vanilla and Marmite cheesecake to Mary Berry. (Not going to lie, I’ve just typed Merry Berry and I’ve been laughing for the past 5 minutes).

If this impulse were to be non-existent, and you were able to think through all of the problems that may occur, you probably wouldn’t make it to the “I am not a robot” page on Ticketmaster. For the first time in my life, I wish that I was a robot.

No, I’m not a 5-year-old boy (or girl, no one shoot me) with unrealistic dreams, I am an adult who regularly has blonde moments, regretting choosing to go to The Isle of Wight Festival. Back in November 2015, it seemed like the world’s greatest idea: camping with friends, and seeing music artists that I wouldn’t otherwise get the chance to see. My primary reason was to see Queen and Adam Lambert, and the fact it was a UK gig made it seem the easiest thing to do. I think my naive scale was on 100 that day.

With a week to go, it is dawning on me that my fear of public bathrooms will have to be faced, and even with a She Wee, there is no getting away from it. What lies ahead is nothing short of hell, and the subconscious smell of a blocked U-bend will soon become a reality. So where did this fear start? Highschool. With it’s peeling orange (no pun intended) and pink decor, the bathroom didn’t really scream “I’m hygienic and usable” yet 12-year-old me proceeded to carry out a basic human function. I soon regretted my decision, as the draft from a SINGLE GLAZED (hello, the 80’s called) window hacked at my cellulite free thighs. From that moment, I vowed never to use a school bathroom again. Being a woman of my word, I only entered that bathroom twice for when I had a costume change during my role in High School Musical in 2010.

So the fact that I am now having to use FESTIVAL toilets is on another level. I imagine that when we arrive on the Thursday, the toilets will be as sanitary as they can be with a pungent smell of Aldi lemon bleach. By the Monday, we’ll be lucky to leave the cubicle STD free. When you go to the doctors for an STD test, I imagine they ask about how many sexual partners you’ve had, not how many  portaloo seats you’ve sat on. Even without the STD, the mental scarring from the portaloo experience will be prevalent. However, a positive point that I need to make, is that my squatting game will be so on point, and I’ll be one step closer to having a J-Lo bum. Squatting however, will not save me in the public shower. Even as I write this post, the thought of wet tiles that have been (un)graced by stranger’s bare feet is making the option of not showering for 4 days more attractive.

The fact that I have opted into this makes it all the worse. I recognise that I am very fortunate to be able to attend so many concerts, yet for this one, I feel like I’m participating in a Bear Grylls experience, with added glitter and MAC makeup. This is my first festival, and I’m sure it’s my last. THINGS COULD BE WORSE. I could be sleeping in a tent. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that I’m glamping. Gurl needs her plug socket for hair straighteners (Frizz= cute in the 70’s).

But before I’ve even stepped foot into the campsite, festival preparation and shopping have caused a mild tension headache and me actually exercising for the first time in half a decade. I’m a shadow of my former self. Previous to this festival, my Nike trainers had mainly been worn in the house, and I was still using the “It’s Christmas” excuse in May. Fast forward to now, I am working out multiple days a week, boob sweat is a real thing and I’m moaning about being hungry 24/7 (Sorry Mum). A Boohoo order for festival clothes had me contemplating whether pineapple sunglasses would be seen as one of my five a day, and anything with a Beyoncé reference on is a great life investment.

At this point I can only pray that this festival is better than I am expecting it to be.

Apologies for the long post, and if you’ve made it to the end, you deserve a Pride of Britain award.

A x

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