(Disclaimer: Not a sponsored post, everything stated is for satirical purposes)

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I would like to say that time has healed the wound of this particular mistake, however it only happened two days ago.

Over the years the festival in question has consisted of small bands covering popular songs. When I heard that my parents were going with their close friends I was quite jealous, a lot of my friends had been and said good things about it, so when a spare ticket popped up I jumped at the chance to join them. Everything seemed perfect, it was a sunny day and we were looking forward to a relaxing afternoon. In our heads, we were expecting to lounge on the grass drinking overpriced alcohol, whilst listening to a number of different acts attempt to cover 'Mr Brightside'  - oh how we were wrong.

To begin with, the parking attendant asked us if we were "dropping someone off", and had a look of sheer surprise when we answered "no" - in retrospect, we should have turned around there and then. Then as we were walking to the entrance, a group of young men mocked us for our choice of garden chairs, asking to borrow them in return for some marshmallows to roast. Once we had arrived at the venue, a field, we could already sense a problem.  As my parent's friends failed to smuggle in 4 cans of Gin and Tonic, we waited for them just inside of the entrance; a silence fell upon us as we took in the view and, more importantly, the overbearing music. Though every other person was thoroughly checked for illegal substances, us and  our comfortable garden chairs were allowed in without question, must have been our trustworthy appearances.

Now I have never been the traditional rave obsessed teen, and up until that point I was pretty sure that the stereotype was just an exaggerated mockery of our generation, however I was most certainly proven wrong.

Let me put it this way; if we turned our experience into a drinking game where you took a shot every time you saw a bad face paint job, a culturally inappropriate Bindi spot made out of sequins, and a bum bag, we would be trollied. And most likely high, given the weed to oxygen ratio.

Once the group had rejoined we found a spare section of grass and settled down to begin our uncomfortable experience, the garden chairs and antibacterial hand sanitiser we had brought making us stick out like a sore thumb.

Then, for the grand total of an hour and a quarter, we sat in all but silence. Hoards of drunk, barely legal teenagers passed us, Fosters cans were discarded, and a bewildered elderly couple sat next to us, finishing their crossword - perhaps they were looking to us for moral support? A number of DJ's I had never heard of entered the stage, but in all honesty I still have no idea where one song finished and one started. A photographer asked if we wanted a picture and I declined with such enthusiasm that I am pretty sure I scared him off.

After we felt like we had got our money's worth, and the constant beat of the music had become unbearable, we quickly made our way to the car. By this point the beat had started to resemble a potential torture device used by prisons, the constant repetitive sonic pulse slowly turning us insane. There we indulged in the slightly warm Gin and Tonics before leaving for my boyfriend's house, where we drank wine and laughed about the horrendous mistake we had just made.

And that's how I landed myself at a rave with four 50+ adults.

 

Published by Megan Lupton