A Slap On the Wrist

It seems to me that there are two types of festival goers: those who cut their wristbands off as soon as the weekend fun comes to a close (or perhaps a day or two later to act as a not-so-subtle reminder for their friends to ask said festival goer about what a fantastic time they had...) and those who build a proud armful of festival bands dating back five or more years.

"Say, what's that mouldy, twisted piece of string on your wrist there Sundance-May?"
         "Oh that's my wristband from Reading 2001... SUCH a crazy weekend... you should have been there."
"Wow, Sundance-May, you are SO much cooler than me."

Think about it. You wouldn't wear the same socks for years (even if you did shower in them). It's disgusting and a bit silly. Invest in some real jewellery, which doesn't look like it might carry a disease. Maybe a tatoo. But then even your finest gold bracelet looks ill when it has to share your wrist with that shrunken cotton. Take a deep breath and cut it off. All the coolest people are those who can drop into conversation "oh yeah, like this one time at Latitude..." without having to prove it with a wristband.

Confession time: I did manage to wear my first festival band (Reading 2006) for a few months until my mother cut it off in my sleep, leaving behind a beautiful statement ring of irritated eczema. I learnt my lesson.

Written for The Afternoon View