When I first arrived back in Melbourne one of my friends unwisely started a rumour that I would be accompanying the entourage who make their annual pilgrimage to the Meredith Musical Festival this year, or as I call it—Merry Death. It’s common knowledge that I refuse to go anywhere I can’t plug in my hairdryer, but the three-day rumpus requires extra commitment: camping. Sure, I flirt with the camp in my prose, musical taste and choice of fancy neckwear and occasional novelty knitwear, but that’s as far as it goes. Needless to say, anything that has even a hint of bivouac sends me screaming like a Girl Scout into civilisation unlike the Cub I once was.

Yes, you read correctly. I was a Cub, the younger brother of the Boy Scout, the breeding ground of Lord Baden Powell’s Boer War army. I dib-dib-dibbed, dob-dob-dobbed then sashayed across the Scout hall from where I was a seconder then a sixer in tawny six—the reason why I’ll never wear khaki or beige again. I won’t lie and say that I attended a jamboree or anything quite so lavish but I have been privy to the claustrophobic nature and suffocating heat of a sleeping bag on more than one occasion. No, abject snobbery is not the reason why I shall not partake in the great outdoors with the great unwashed (well, maybe partially), it was from a traumatic experience that occurred at the very last excursion I attended in 1997.

School camp, Year 10: I was lumped into a tent with the loser no one else wanted to be with, presumably because I was the other loser with whom no one else wanted to bunk. It was a vile eight days of no showering, which was only ameliorated by a hefty supply of baby wipes and a bottle of John-Paul Gaultier’s Le Male. It was the nineties, JPG was the parfum du jour and I was one of its first patrons. The mere whiff of it makes me recoil in horror these days, but there’s something to be said for sensory memory. Poor old Heath—mispronounced Heaff—was an odd character, only subsisting on a diet of Cruskits and peanut butter, Red Rooster chips and the occasional apple to give his digestive tract the good ol’ push it so required. Eight days of not talking to one another, eight days of shared oxygen beneath a canvas canopy, eight days of absolute misery. Supposedly, God created the earth in six days, so to survive such drudgery, surely I’m verging on demigod status.

Finally, I was free to enter civilisation again somewhat shaken but otherwise unharmed. Heath and I were in the process of packing up our belongings into our borrowed backpacks (ugh!), scraping off the previous night’s golden syrup dumpling disaster from the Trangia and disassembling our canvas palace. A lone pair of underpants sat on the floor, waiting to be claimed. I hesitated then asked him, “Heath, are those your underpants?” “No,” he grunted. “How can you be sure?” I queried. “I haven’t changed mine all camp.” And that’s the reason you will never find me at a campsite.

Here’s some handy hints for Merry Death and all other outdoor musical festival where carnies hang:

Stake your claim early
Be early and find a convenient spot. Erect your tent immediately to avoid any late-night missions and make sure it’s in close proximity to toilets, showers and the bar. These three components are crucial to festival success.

Do not erect in the tent
No matter the mood, it’s never appropriate to get jiggy in the tent. The canvas might as well be made from paper and any frisky business will no doubt set the entire campsite into a panic believing there is an approaching wildebeest stampede. Besides, it’s gross.

Wear appropriate footwear
Flip-flops are never a good idea. Ask yourself how many times you have flicked through your friends’ photos of an outdoor festival and there has been the archetypal image of a circle of filthy thong-clad feet. Don’t be in that circle.

Keep your shoes on, Lucy
Sure, you might feel you’re at one with nature, but walking around barefooted is declassé and dangerous. Keep nice and well-soled; there’ll be many a toe-proud hippy to beat the turf in your place.

Drink plenty of water
Yes, beer contains water, but it doesn’t mean that it’s hydrating. There’s nowt worse than a chorus of ‘Who brought the drunk guy/girl?’ to make one feel incredibly ostracised.

I do believe there’s more for you to read: