Style and festivals are old adversaries. The likelihood is you're sleeping in a tent, which is hopefully the closest you'll come to living in a bin. Gone are home comforts. Your mirror is the foil in a cigarette carton. Your bathtub is a wet wipe. Your wardrobe is the scrunched up contents of a badly packed bag. And then there's the weather. The weather hates you. If it wasn't so good at creating the finely tuned ecosystems that sustain all life on earth, we'd abolish it. But we can't. And if you're going to spend all day in it, listening to music, having fun or queuing for three hours to get your hands on a hotdog the hue of Mr Johnny Depp's skin in Edward Scissorhands, the odds of you looking good are slim. So better to follow the rules.
No matter how hot it is, sandals at festivals are for people who like to walk home barefoot and with broken toes. You don't have hooves.
You wouldn't wear a massive fluorescent phallus with a huge flashing red arrow pointing right down at your face, would you? No? Just checking.
Yeah, those friendship bracelets were a good idea, bought while you were of sound mind. As was that tattoo.