I’m not renowned for my hygiene. Sometimes, my socks reach wear No 4 before they are washed. At Glastonbury, a laissez-fare attitude towards hygiene is a good thing. If anything, it is encouraged, which suits me. But even I can see that four nights here will require a bit of body maintenance. So I will to try to keep myself as clean as possible, aided by a pack of wet wipes and the scant showers on site.
Thursday
My day one outfit is a black jumpsuit and black Dr Martens. This is my first mistake and it becomes apparent very quickly that this is not pragmatic festival attire. In relentless 25C heat I’ve created a hotbox for my body – its own sultry ecosystem. Plus, going to the toilet is a feast for the senses, and it is slightly awkward trying to untangle myself from the jumpsuit. The toilets are fine, by the way: yes there is a pungent ripeness to them and sometimes you have to make a choice between squatting uncomfortably or sitting on something questionable, but who goes to the best music festival in the world and complains that the toilets smell?
Friday
I wake up at 10am and realise immediately that showering is out of the question. The queue is hours long and it is already roasting: five minutes after showering you would need another one, so why bother? And from what I’ve been told they’re not worth it anyway; merely a trickle of water in a steel cubicle. Better just to fester – that’s what I’m telling myself anyway. But I do have just enough warm water left in my plastic bottle to brush my teeth with, so that’s something.
A quick pass-over with some wet wipes will have to do, though really it just feels as if I’m pushing dirt around my body. Any cleanliness is minimal. I head back out, this time in a more practical outfit: a sleeveless top, which is great for ventilation, and boots that actually were made for walking.
Saturday
I’ve had three hours’ sleep. The (generously named) two-man tent is sweltering. My clothes are all still damp from a night of dancing till 4am. I was never going to keep my tent clean and organised, but I’m shocked by how quickly things have descended. The remnants of some day-old chicken katsu curry are melding in nicely with spilt vodka.
It is even hotter today than Friday, so there’s no point using wet wipes and certainly no point in showering. I’ll be drenched in sweat within minutes anyway. And Guns N’ Roses are performing today; they are the kings of never showering, so it will help me get into the spirit of things.
Sunday
At this point, the dirt on my body has given me a Gollum-like sheen, and when I rub suncream into my arms, bits of dirt clump up into small black freckles. The way I’m wired, it was always going to be a losing battle trying to maintain a reasonable level of hygiene here. It takes a great deal of effort, effort I’d rather spend trying to get to Lana Del Rey’s set on time. And besides, good hygiene is really just a matter of perspective. Everyone’s a dirtbag at a festival.
