Festival Fatigue has set in - but I can't imagine a world without Willie

Royal Ascot / Jack Houghton / 22 June 2008 / Leave a Comment

Ascot's made Jack Houghton feel the same as he did after SwedenRock, and there aren't too many people who can say that...

It's called Festival Fatigue. As far as I can make out it's a psychological ailment, with physical symptoms, affecting music festival-goers. There is no cure - beyond removal from the environment and subsequent rest - and no one is immune; no matter how aware or hardened.

Earlier this month, a best friend, thinking it criminal I had yet to attend a music festival, felt he should rectify things before our impending nuptials this summer (not to each other). On first mention of his intentions, I envisaged a relaxed sojourn in some field; where men with guitars would sing folksy numbers about times changing and hard rains coming; and where I might, if the mood demanded it, smoke things I hadn't smoked since I was a teenager (I never inhaled).

Sweden Rock didn't sound like such a place. And it wasn't. There was a field, yes - lots of them as it turned out - but the men with guitars were all a little louder, angrier and hairier than I had imagined. And so began five days of constant noise, with no let-up.

By day two, Festival Fatigue was upon me. The physical symptoms were obvious. I hadn't washed for a start. And a repeating, heatstroke-induced nosebleed was denting efforts to continue drinking: the only tonic which made the experience bearable. Furthermore, I couldn't hear properly - which some might think advantageous - but the constant internal beat of my eardrums was maddening.

This was the first clue of psychological problems to come. I became a bit hallucinatory; with tingling skin and a feeling of existing somewhere outside my physical body. I started to fantasise, wildly, about the first wash I would have when I got home (involving two showers, a bath, and various ablutionary requirements - nose, ears, teeth - in between). Most of all I fantasised about silence; although there was something scary about the concept. I couldn't remember what it sounded like and wondered if I would cope if hearing it again.

Beyond all this though, the most significant symptom was a change in my standards. I was quite content to eat anything, urinate anywhere and sleep anyhow. By day four I'd happily lay down on a cigarette-butt covered floor, only 20 yards from a death-metal band in full-flight, just because the spot offered some shade. Amazingly, I managed to fall asleep, albeit briefly; before a fellow Sweden Rocker deposited a half-eaten plate of nachos on my head. And the most frightening thing is, that with this change in standards, you're not sure you can, or want to, exist in normal society again.

So why, in this realm of horseracing cyberspace, am I banging on about music gatherings and the resulting Festival Fatigue? Primarily, it's because, after five days of Royal Ascot, I'm sick of watching and writing about racing. But also (and this is the reason I'll be giving the editors at betting.betfair), I wonder if there are interesting parallels to be drawn between my Sweden and Ascot experiences?

Because after five days of forced BBC coverage (if you haven't read it, please check out my Diary of a BBC Viewer blog), I feel even worse. True, I have washed most days, I don't have a nosebleed, and I haven't started urinating in random places around the living room, yet. But nonetheless, seemingly insignificant things were sending me irate by Friday, and by Saturday, I could hardly imagine a world without constant racing, fashion, and smiley television folk telling me how much I should be enjoying it. But worse, I was struggling to imagine life without it.

So, writing this on Sunday morning, I'm feeling deprived and dispossessed, like something is missing from my life. Is this what cold turkey is like for a smack addict? You hated the thing you had to do before - you knew it was only causing you harm - but somehow, life without it is harder, scarier, and just intolerable.

Where are you Clare? James? Rishi, Barty, Kev, Jim? I need you. Even you Willie. Yes you. All is forgiven, I'd take you back in a heartbeat.