PSA: If you dislike reading articles written by disgruntled (and perhaps overly harsh) students with a chip on their shoulder, please select another article from the vast array provided by Ensemble.

Every year, students face with the ominous question of, “What am I going to do for money this summer?” After my first year, I was done looking after people’s children and ready to get creative finding a job that might actually be fun. In my naivety, I researched jobs which were available at big U.K. festivals, with the logic that I would be paid to go to a festival. Although this was true, it would be of no surprise to you, that my “festival experience” was not what I had foolishly imagined. As a paid ticket holder, you’re willing to put up with all the inevitable grim-ness that will ensue at said festival. However when you’re working a sh*tty job on sh*tty pay, the endearing-ness of campsite and festival life is diminished (obviously). In essence, the grim-ness becomes all-consuming. 

My first festival stint was at Latitude towards the end of July 2019, working as a carpark attendant. I’d roped an old school friend into working with me, hoping we’d be left alone to frolic about in a field all day, occasionally parking a car or two. I arrived alone 3 days before the festival began having signed up for pre-show shifts, not knowing how much this was going to extend my torture. On my arrival, I was greeted by a big scouser guy riding a jacked-up golf cart that was thick with dust – this was foreshadowing for things to come. My first impression of the staff campsite was less happy-clappy-hippy-commune than I had hoped, but more barren, caged off segments of a field that faintly stank of portaloo juices.

I was also terrified of a group of people in the corner who were day drinking while listening to intense scream-o music. I later found out that they were on the nightshift and this was their way of getting through the day. Another red flag. My manager, who will henceforth be known as Neanderthal Dan, can only be described as a large thirty-year-old Nottingham fresher with a dodgy haircut and a proclivity for ketamine. Neanderthal Dan welcomed me and informed me that I was to be ready for my first shift for 5am. The hype continued to fade. 

Having lugged all my poorly suited camping equipment from the car, my first real challenge was to get the tent up by myself. I had practiced like an eager girl scout in my living room so I was largely confident that I would have no problem. Cut to twenty minutes later, I’m practically bursting a blood vessel to put the pole thingy in another peg thingy and with a heartbreaking *snap* my tent pole broke. Luckily, this snap had immediately attracted the attention of a fellow camper (who’s face I did not see) who shouted “Do you need some duct tape?” and with a pathetic “yEs pLeAsEe,” a roll of duct tape was thrown over the neighbouring tent and landed in my lap like a heavenly gift. I was pathetically grateful for the anonymous duct tape-wielding voice. Once I was tucked into my sleeping bag in my slightly wonky tent, I was ready and raring to go for my 5am start. That morning, like a radioactive, yellow angel, Neanderthal Dan walked into the campsite bearing gifts of fluorescent vests and a pile of walkie talkies, restoring some hype (cue the image on your right). 

I was placed on my spot in the entrance to the “production area” (way less cool than it sounds) about a mile and a half from the campsite, having been plopped there by the aforementioned Scouser Buggy Driver. My job was initially to stand at a crossroads to make sure no vehicle drove the wrong way round the one way system, which, it turns out, they never did. After a mere hour, it was clear that the hype of the hi-vis and my unused walkie talkie was not enough to sustain me for the next eight days. 

What I would come to find was that the extreme boredom and isolation of this job would make me uncharacteristically extroverted. In other words, I would chat to literally any human being that came my way. This was the very small silver lining to a very sh*t job. One of my first and favourite conversations was with a security guard who, as well as owning her own security firm, worked as a butcher, #girlboss. She didn’t understand why I found her career crossover so fascinating. I also met an ex-soldier who had done a few tours to Afghanistan who now worked full time as a security guard at events and festivals. Naturally, my line of conversation on sore feet and mind-numbing boredom paled in comparison to his stories of *actual* trauma. I was a captive audience! Fun/Horrible fact: Immediately after a festival when the campsites have been cleared, security firms are required to carry out a “tent check” to identify left over bodies. An unfortunate security guard told me he had been assigned this shift...on his birthday. 

A silver lining to this supposedly “elite” production zone spot was that I was right at the entrance where all the celebs came in and out. Lana Del Ray was playing that year and it was my dream that I would spot her in the back seat of her limo and call for an unannounced vehicle search (not that I had that authority) just so I could see her in the flesh. Although this obviously didn’t happen, I actually met her costume manager who I was surprised to discover drove a really shit car? Like an old yellow banger like Simon from the Inbetweeners? My favourite and by far the most unexpected brush with fame was when I accidentally met the first British astronaut to go into space, Helen Sharman. It beats me as to why Helen Sharman was at Latitude, but her agent took pity on me (rightly so) and introduced me to her while I was on my shift! 

Also, PSA, you know those enormous HGV trucks that you always get stuck behind on the motorways? Ninety percent of the drivers I came across were absolute legends. The majority of the time before a festival starts, there are so many sub-contracted companies and deliveries coming in and out, the organisation is chaos. (This normally means that these drivers have no idea where they’re going or to whom they’re delivering.) You’d think that they would be raging after I told them that where they ACTUALLY need to go is about a mile around the other side of the site, and by the way the only way to get there is to come back the way you came. In other words please attempt the almost impossible manoeuvre of doing a U-turn around that tree on this single track one way system. Nine times out of ten they respond with, “No problem love, cheers!” and, with a big cheery smile, they complete this seemingly impossible manoeuvre without breaking a sweat. 

The same cannot be said for the Suffolk county yummy mummies who I encountered on my few shifts in the infamous pick up and drop off zone. Although I preferred this spot as I could sit down (sometimes) and there was more oxygen than dust, the clientele were less friendly. If you didn’t know, Latitude is a family friendly festival, one that has a reputation for being a good “first festival” for middle class teenagers. This means the inevitable Range Rover will arrive to drop off Otto, Rozzle, Phillipa, and Petunia, driven by their equally irritating parent. On the opening day of the festival, a woman clad in Hunter wellies and a shooting cap strode up to me booming, “Hellew yes hellew, this is the closest I can park to the festival, correct?” Feeling like I was being interrogated by a headmistress, I assured her of her doubts. Instantly, she boomed across the field “HUGO, HUGO! WILL YOU COME HE- YAH PLEASEE?” Hugo, a chubby teenager with the classic aspiring-middle-class-roadman attire, sidled over to his irritated mother, followed by his equally terrified friends. Unsure as to why Hugo had been requested in my presence, I was then asked to repeat what I had just confirmed to ensure that “Mummy was right all along.”

Apart from these small moments of entertainment, 90% of my shifts were characterised by waddling around to keep my feet from going numb while inhaling mountains of dust. I also spent most of my time green with envy at the beautiful young and stylish members of the production team who would spit passive aggressively down the walkie talkie to me and the rest of the team. (The joke’s on them though, because most of the time I couldn’t actually hear what they were saying over the muffled-ness of the radio). I reached the end of my tether on my last shift, having rolled my ankle on a pine cone while intoxicated the night before. I spent that final shift hungover, unwashed for the sixth day, hobbling around in thirty degree heat (ºC), attempting to direct enormous trucks with staging and lighting out of the arena. To add to this delirium, the only podcast I had downloaded on my phone was a very old reading of Pride and Prejudice and several trashy episodes of a series entitled “Locked up abroad.” You can only speculate as to what my mental state was like after eight days of 12 hour shifts with this hideous audio concoction. Thankfully, I was only on shift for half of the day. I could have kissed Neanderthal Dan when he rolled up in his buggy to whisk me away from this fever dream. 

To summarise, I personally would not recommend this job, or any other paid festival work. And before you ask, yes, I did work at Reading festival a month later. (But that’s another traumatic story). However, if you enjoy endless hours of solitude and own incredibly supportive footwear, you might thrive! If you’re like me, though, I suggest you secure a different job in order to enjoy the festival as a paying customer. 

India W. is a fourth year student at the University of Edinburgh studying Politics and Sociology.