Fucking Festival Fashion Fever Is On Its Way

For three months every year the country goes straw hat mad. Do us a favour.
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For three months every year the country goes straw hat mad. Do us a favour.

Like some overweight roadie in a muddy field, you’re about to get bogged down at every turn with advice on what – and what not - to be seen in at this summer’s festivals.

Parasitic in nature, it’s passed from victim from victim via newspapers, weekly glossy magazines and fashion blogs.

Cut-offs. Long? Short? Frayed? Tailored? Wellies? Or biker boots? Cheese cloth shirts under a second-hand Barbour? And what about jewellery? Boho-chic?

Cocaine-thin super models will be papped: their (so-called) sartorial solutions evaluated, compared and copied by sufferers of FFFF.

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Indie-rock band members will have every article of their attire poured over, analysed, scrutinized, dissected and inspected.

Anyone whom is thought to be anyone will be presented to us as the absolute symbol of summer sartorial style. That which must, and will enthusiastically be, copied by millions.

FFFF attacks and stymie’s the part of the brain that dictates originality, or inventive, creative thinking.

Female sufferers of FFFF seem to voluntarily limit their choices to cut-off denim shorts. Or skin tight black jeans with holes in the knees. Over-sized, ‘vintage’ Barbour jackets. DM’s might make the odd appearance. Wispy, 60’s-ish cheese cloth blouses, or loose, free-flowing dresses are also common symptoms. Sunglasses, deliberately frayed trilby hats and/or straw stetsons are to found on female sufferer’s heads. Those, and flowers. Lots of flowers.

Jewellery-wise, FFFF dictates that the sufferer suddenly, and without apparent reason, wear copious amounts of bangles and over-sized skull rings. Not, it’s important to note, on traditional ring fingers. No, these items will more often than not be spotted on thumbs.

With male sufferers of FFFF, the part of the brain that normally self-polices so as to stop him looking like a complete cock, is attacked and defeated. Sunglasses, worn well after there is actually any sun left in the sky, become de rigeur. Pork-pie hats, coupled with skin tight jeans, or skinny cut-offs, are redolent of the male sufferer.

Common amongst all sufferers is the overwhelming choice of footwear.

Wellies. Wellies. Wellies. Everywhere you look.

Whatever strain of festival fashion fever grips you, it must not look expensive. With tickets to festivals costing well into the £100’s, it naturally excludes certain members of society who simply cannot afford it. The unemployed, for example. People on low income. Tramps. However, it remains of utmost importance that no matter how much of an upper, or upper-to-middle class background the young sufferer comes from, he or she MUST dress like shabby shit.

There is one small light at the end of this very dark tunnel.

Much like the life span of FFFF’s not-too distant cousin, the fruit fly, the fever only lasts for a very short time. It’s limited life-cycle means we only have to suffer from it between late June and late August

The depressing fact of the matter is that without doubt, you’ll know someone who becomes infected this summer.

Transformed from a healthy, independent-thinking person to some zombie-like, follower-of-the-herd dead head, you’ll watch as they leave, eyes bright with false hope and optimism, the obligatory rucksack hanging heavy over their puny frame like the dark weight of expectation it is.

Make sure you don’t catch it. 

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