I realise that Valentine's Day post is a few days out of date...consider it a post V-day cogitation.

Alas! I fear it’s that time of the year again, and no I do not refer to Christmas. Rudolph and baubles are light relief in the face of the Clinton’s Card concocted catastrophe that is Valentine’s Day. On this hallowed day, the only red-nosed mammals in sight are those lovelorn couples who have overindulged in a particularly enthusiastic snogging session. To those who suffer from a chronic case of Bridget Jones Syndrome, Valentine’s Day can only be taken personally; indeed we consider it an international conspiracy against bitter singletons. To all those wrapt in love’s saccharine embrace, atrocities such as P.D.A’s (Public Displays of Affection a.k.a. eating one another’s faces) and overly-sentimental/infantile cooing down the mobile phone to one another seem perfectly natural, but let me assure you, they are certainly not, they are downright abhorrent. No one wants to watch a re-enactment of Hannibal as they go about their daily shop.

Join the Festivalties!

I’m certain I speak on behalf of the majority when I say that shelling out over one hundred pounds to live like a medieval peasant for 5 days is somewhat of a tall order. In most circumstances we wouldn’t tolerate queuing an hour to perform any basic bodily function like drinking or peeing, contracting what feels like a severe bout of pneumonia from sleeping in an old porous tent or eating sausages that are so drenched in oil you wonder why Bush didn’t just invade the burger stand they came from. So what keeps us coming back to festivals? It certainly can’t be the exotic weather, impeccable hygiene levels and splendid cuisine. Despite the fact that the site looks like a refugee camp for victims of some tragic natural disaster, the rush you get when you first step onto that beer-can studded field is unbeatable. You can’t avoid the infectious feeling of abandon; people grin at you when you catch their eye and here your next-door neighbours actually do pop round with a cup of sugar...well, a couple of Carlings .

Festivals are quite possibly the closest thing to utopia in this day and age. Everyone belongs at a festival; yes, even the bleary-eyed emo-kid who appears to be caught in the throes of some emotional crisis isn’t out of place. Indeed for every festival goer there’s a band to fit. A festival is a great leveller of society; people find common ground, whether it’s at a comedy tent, observing the latest brain-shredding indie fad or, on a more literal level, actually sharing common ground for urination purposes. Be sure to wave goodbye to your woes at a festival. For on that hallowed turf there is no such thing as mortgages or misery, the only problems encountered are bowel-related.

Let’s all embrace the festival vibe and nurture our inner-peasant. A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.