Festivals

I have a confession to make: I hate festivals.

Soggy noodles in a cardboard box, warm wine in a plastic cup, and the stench of port-a-loos add up to a rotten day out.

The word reminds me of that Seinfeld episode when George’s father creates ‘Festivus for the Rest of Us’ as an alternative to Christmas.

Instead of a tree they gather around a metal pole, which is about as exciting as most of the music, food, wine or hamster festivals I’ve been to.

OK – I haven’t really been to a hamster festival – but it’s only a matter of time.

I think what I hate most is the false bonhomie.

You’re in a queue 25-deep to buy a dodgy kebab, deafened by feedback from a screeching sound system, surrounded by people saying how FANTASTIC it all is.

No wonder people get drunk.

Lately, though, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m robbing my kids of something they actually might like.

After all, kids love eating crappy food, listening to loud music and pestering strangers.

So last weekend we went to a music festival to raise money for the local surf club.

Trudging along the beach in the rain I started ranting like the cartoon dog Muttley, replacing ‘sassafrassarassum’ with a variety of expletives which the kids later repeated in front of their grandfather.

My mood darkened further when I saw the ubiquitous jumping castles and tea cup rides, manned by carnie folk.

Maybe I’ve seen too many David Lynch films, but those sideshow workers with their rats’ tails, buck-toothed grins and close-set eyes freak me out.

The only bright spot was the coffee cart, so we dosed up on our drug of choice and settled in to watch the band.

Imagine my surprise when they turned out to be FANTASTIC, playing a seamless set of blues, funk and jazz.

Party-hard preschoolers were busting moves, mums and dads were smiling and tapping their feet, the wine was cold and the sausages were hot.

I couldn’t believe that we were having a good time.

Even the carnie folk turned out to be nice polite fellas, giving the kids extra-long turns on the rides.

The sun came out, the surf was pumping, and all was good.

I knew it was time to leave when three-year-old Grace became bored and started grabbing under my skirt.

“Mummy,” she squealed, “you don’t have any underpants on!!!”

“Ooh, too much information!” said one bloke, covering his eyes with his hands.

Figuring it wasn’t the right time to talk about the mechanics of a G-string, I grabbed the kids and scurried off home.

Believe it or not, now I’m a convert.

Like a mad old cat-lady, I rip notices out of newspapers about upcoming festivals.

I guess we’re creatures who like to herd; we find comfort among our fellow man. And we love a free snag.

Whatever the reason, bring on Festivus for the Rest of Us.