So it’s that time of year again- FESTIVAL SEASON!!! A rite of passage for any young ‘un over the age of 16 up to... well, any age really, a summer isn’t really complete without a trip to mucky field with a few cans of Druids and a world famous band rockin

 I myself think that I’ve become a little bit of a festival veteran, having attended Oxegen for the past three years and having purchased my tickets for both Punchestown’s finest and Electric Picnic this year. So I have come to compile my own list of festival survival tips which I think everybody should abide by. It doesn’t matter if you’re up to your neck in mud in Kildare, or swanning around in a bikini at Benicassim, I’d advise anybody going festivalling to have a gander at this survival gold- you can thank me later.

•    First things first- PACK LIGHT. OK, yes you need to bring a few changes of clothes, but do you really need four pairs of shoes and your entire make-up bag (which, ladies, we all know weigh more than a small child)? You’ll really be glad you left the excess at home when you’re struggling uphill with a tent in one hand and a wheelbarrow of beer in the other.

•    Although, if you can manage it, bring a foldy chair. Way comfier than soggy, cold grass. Your bum will thank you.

•    For god’s sake, even if the weather forecast is good, just bring wellies and a raincoat. Especially if you’re attending Oxegen, because god bless it, Punchestown in July is a magnet for torrential rain. Even if a miracle occurs and the sun- gasp!- makes an appearance, the ground does be destroyed anyway, and you’ll be glad it’s your cheap wellies being battered rather than your good boots.

•    Layers are your best friend. Always bring two hoodies, because one is bound to get soaked, and your tent will inevitably be freezing at night. Then, if it ends up being a bit toasty out, just shed a layer or two. Sorted. Oh, and bring socks. Lots and lots of socks.

•    But just to be hopeful, bring some suncream. I didn’t bring any on an otherwise miserable weekend  back in 2008, and got a lovely lobster face on the Sunday.

•    Don’t forget your ID. Yes, you may be 24 and a head full of wisdom, but the annoyed security guard or barman may not trust your baby face. And if you can, bring a drivers licence or Garda ID, because you WILL lose your passport, just because you need it to go to Malaga in three weeks.

•    Buy a timetable. Yes, they’re a tad expensive once you get inside the campsite, but you’ll be grateful you bought one when there’s crowds of wailing fans running around the entire arena trying to find where and when some random DJ is playing.

•    Don’t bring anything too valuable. Sure, bringing your IPod seems a great idea at the time, but you won’t be too cheerful once it a) goes missing, or b) falls into a deceptively large puddle. If you can, swap your SIM card from your fancy shmancy Android into a cheapo mobile- at least if you lose it (I am a testament to this, having lost my phone on the Waltzers last year), you won’t be raging.

•    I know I may sound like your mammy, but don’t get too drunk. Yes, festivals are usually just a giant piss-up, but is it really worth missing your favourite headliner because you’re comatose in a tent? Or missing all the early acts the next day because you’re busy vomiting into a plastic bag? Be sensible, kids.

•    But while we’re on the topic of drink, keep in mind that you can’t bring any glass bottles into the campsites (they have decanting stations at the entrance though), and you can’t bring ANY alcohol into the arenas. So when you’re moaning that your shoulder of vodka got taken off you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

•    BABY WIPES. Seriously. Just bring them. They will be your best friend.

•    Same goes for hand sanitizer. You’ll understand this once you see the portaloos.

•    Pack a few condoms. You never know, you might get lucky, and you really don’t want to conceive a child in a tent. It’s not the most romantic story really.

•    And finally- toilet paper. You may feel stupid bringing it, but you’ll be having the last laugh come halfway through the first day when the entire supply of paper for the weekend has been obliterated.