YES

Henry Yates will be staying at home in a dressing gown

If the Devil wanted to start work on my own personal hell, I’d advise him to ditch the fire and brimstone, and simply assemble a replica of Glastonbury – complete with overflowing bilge pipes, stomach cramps and a headlining set from Jay-Z – that lasts for all eternity.

I’m familiar with the propaganda version of the festival experience. You know, the one where morning mist gives way to dappled sunlight, the air throbs with idealism and unshaven young men come of age around campfires, all the while listening to their very favourite bands.

All bollocks, of course. The British festival is a distillation of utter human misery. The suffering starts before you even arrive, with the realisation that you’ve spent a week’s wages on a bill that offers, at best, three bands you’d pay to see on an individual basis. It gathers pace as you brave a sardine-tight train journey out of civilisation and find yourself in a quagmire populated by roaming gangs of accountants in jester’s hats. Two days later, it reaches a new low as you squat precariously over an open cesspit, your sunburnt face contorted with regret.

The sex isn’t up to much, growing more elusive and less appealing as a fog of body odour descends on the campsite. The drugs are hopeless and even the rock ‘n’ roll isn’t as exciting as it should be, with the Kaiser Chiefs barely visible on a distant TV and the sound quality comparable to a radio alarm clock being played in an air tunnel.

This summer, the closest I’ll get to a festival is watching the highlights on TV – and that’s only so I can laugh at the poor sods watching Keane in the rain. I’d advise you to do the same.

NO

Jenni Davies is preparing to get well and truly mashed

It’s time to get liberated and become one with the great British outdoors. A time to shed your suits and get ready for music, lager and 60 hours without washing or caring about anything except getting off your face. It’s that glorious thing – the summer music festival season.

Yes, you’ve spent hours of your life on redial to the Carling festival hotline, and yes, you’ve trudged halfway across England in a beaten-up Nova, but as you step into that swampy festival field, nothing else matters. You’re entering a messy musical kingdom – a place where you get to meander aimlessly, chomping on a hotdog, shouting directions incoherently and, for us ladies, standing up and pissing down a cardboard tube. Weeeeeeeeeee!

At festivals, you’ve got nothing to lose (well, apart from your phone, friends, wallet, tent, etc) so who cares if you look like a twat in your newly acquired cowboy hat and disco poncho. Because right here, anything goes. Where else can you attempt to have sex in a sleeping bag, sit around campfires babbling shite with strangers, and laugh at your mate as he attempts his newly discovered tribal moonwalk?

As you stand listening to the music, the feeling you get when the sun eventually breaks through the rain is nothing short of euphoric. You’ve never given a shit about The Fratellis, but it’s like each chorus was written just for you. You sing, you drink, you dance. And then you sing, drink and dance some more.

And to anyone back home slagging this off… why don’t you stop reading this and fuck off back to Wetherspoons where you can swap banalities with the faceless bar staff? Because that’s what you deserve, you miserable, miserable gits.