This weekend, as hordes descend on Worthy Farm for high jinks beneath the Glastonbury rain clouds, nothing will bring me more happiness than the sweet sound of a flushing toilet.

Following my one and only Glastonbury festival experience a few years ago, I vowed never to take home comforts for granted again.

We arrived on a Thursday, naively assuming we were ahead of the weekend rush and would therefore have no problem finding a space for our tents. Not being seasoned Glasto-goers, we weren’t prepared for the sea of tents stretching ahead as far as the eye could see. The size of the place was overwhelming.

Eventually, we found a patch of grass on a hillside, next to a cowshed. It was getting dark and, despite having been a Girl Guide and spending most childhood holidays under canvas, I didn’t really know how to pitch the tent I’d borrowed, much to the annoyance of the friend I was sharing it with.

Later that night, attempting to sleep in the flimsy little tent, we realised just how steep the slope was – and how much a cowshed stinks. Then there were the worse-for-wear revellers stumbling on to the tent, flailing about on top of us. To top it all off, I’d recently had a fall-out with the aforementioned friend, so it was all strained and awkward. A ratty, sleepless night didn’t help.

Neither did the fact that whoever raided our tent next day decided to use it as a toilet, something we discovered when we climbed into our sleeping bags, wondering why they were wet. Bit by bit, basic standards of hygiene and dignity are eroded at Glastonbury. With 200 people queuing to use a single cold tap, cleanliness becomes a distant memory. You’d need the stamina of a Roman gladiator to survive the loos. I can’t begin to describe the horrors lurking behind the toilet doors, but I did see grown men, including a 20st leather-clad hairy biker, stumbling out, retching.

It wasn’t all bad. The sun shone, we saw some great bands and had a laugh mooching around, indulging in Indian head massages and eating our body weight in falafels. But towards the end I was craving running water, a flushing toilet and my own bed.

It confirmed my suspicion that festivals look more fun than they actually are.

These days I’m happy to watch Glastonbury from the comfort of my sofa. I can have a cup of tea without queuing for an hour, I don’t have to walk three miles to the toilet and, best of all, I don’t have to pretend to find juggling stilt-walkers entertaining.