Emmaprovement Continues...

Glasto Day 1 · Day 2 · Day 3 · Day 4

Obviously, I've never been to a festival. Crowds, cool music and the C word (camping) is pretty much my notion of absolute hell.

But we're the media partner for the acclaimed Lost Vagueness area, so off to Glasto we go.

It's going to be luxe, Taryn assured me. There'd be a proper trailer, a nice bus to take us down, backstage access; there were hints of possibly canoodling with celebrities. "Posh people go to Glastonbury, Emma. Trust me," said Taryn. And I do.

Or did. Until yesterday. Do you know what kind of people go to festivals? Ugly people. Dirty people. Crusty people. People with strange hair and questionable dress sense. Not my people.

Driving the Urban Junkies bus through the teeming crowds of Glastonbury on Thursday afternoon, someone actually said "God, everyone's really ugly". Then, a man bashed his dreadlocked head against the bus, leaving a smeary trail across my window. Nice.

We're travelling with thirteen photographers, hired to shoot the people for our Lost Celebrity microsite (log in using urbanjunkies and dailyfix). Normally, I'm not all about photographers, but considering the options outside the bus, I do a double take of the guys. Taryn catches me checking them out, and shakes her head. "Hands off the staff, Cheevers," she says. Busted.

OMG, there's a child! People bring their children here? Surely it's completely unhygienic and dangerous, with all the drug-addled youth. Kids don't like Amy Winehouse - they like violent videogames and playing with matches. At home.

What's wrong with you, Brits? You seem to love putting yourselves in the the most inhumane conditions - unheated castles, festivals, Faliraki - and then pretending it's great fun. Getting "stuck in" as you like to say. Whacked.

We drive by the shower facilities, which look alarmingly communal. I text flatmateEmma who's been taken down to Glastonbury on a glamorous junket with a fashion label. "Do you guys have showers in your Winnebago?" I type. She texts back: "People don't really shower at Glastonbury. I just brought Wet Wipes."

What. The. Fuck.

I go into panic mode. Who do I know that has access to a helicopter? Because obviously I'm going to have to be airlifted out of here.

We arrive at the Lost Vagueness area, and I'm slightly comforted. There are women dressed in ballgowns, corsets and men in tuxes wandering about the fields. There's even a casino, diner and ballroom. I'm glad I had the foresight to pack some high heels. Clearly, I'm going to need them. Things are looking up.

After humping our stuff clear across the grounds we arrive at the campsite. Um, where are the celebrities? Where is Kate, for instance? I doubt she's sharing a brocade fold-out sofabed with her boss. In a damp campervan. I bet she's not weighing up the need for a very stiff drink, or seven, with the horrific but inevitable outcome of having to visit the Portaloo.

And guess who forgot to bring loo roll? Guess who didn't even know she had to bring loo roll?

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