5 REASONS GLASTONBURY & PARENTHOOD ARE THE SAME

1. YOU’RE SURROUNDED BY THE SMELL OF SHIT AND WET WIPES

Whether you’re in front of the Pyramid Stage or making a brew in your kitchen, you’ll be inhaling this depraved cocktail the whole time.

2. YOU INADVERTENTLY SING ALONG TO SOME TERRIBLE MUSIC

From Peppa Pig to The Proclaimers, Tellytubbies to Janet Jackson – it’s all crap. But you will be humming it. All the time. And just because it’s catchy doesn’t mean it’s good. Ebola is catchy.

3. TWO HOURS SLEEP AIN’T BAD

Maybe your bundle of joy decided to wake the entire street with their impromptu Slipknot audition at 3am. Or perhaps the morning sun turned your tent into a sweat-pit after a late night rave around Shangri-La. Either way, sleep is now something you *used* to do.

4. TOILET BREAKS ARE NOT RELAXING

Whether it’s queueing to squat over a rancid portaloo or taking a dump in installments because your kid got stuck between the wall and the sofa, both scenarios make normal toilet trips seem like a spa weekend in comparison.

5. YOU’LL WITNESS THINGS SEEN NOWHERE ELSE

At Glastonbury I once looked on flabbergasted as a twenty stone bollock-naked man who was painted silver waved his willy in my mates face and stole his chips. When my boys were babies I witnessed one of them piss in his own mouth mid-nappy change and somehow enjoy the taste. You just don’t see that kind of thing in Tesco.

(My 2020 Tour 'TODDLERGEDDON' is now onsale here.)

Comments

The Time I Screamed at my Kids

Before my kids arrived I swore I’d never shout at them. But choosing how to approach parenthood before your kids are born is like a caterpillar deciding what kind of butterfly they’re gonna be while they’re still building the cocoon. ‘I’ll still do loads of charity work, of course. And I’ll be REALLY nice to moths too, even though they’ll probably hate me because I’ll be so bloody gorgeous.’ Theory and reality are like sugar and shit. I’ve raised my voice to my kids more times than I can count. Often just to shout ‘STOP SHOUTING!’ which I’m aware doesn’t set a great example. ‘You should NEVER shout at your kids.’ And that’s fine. In theory. Because everything’s fine in theory. The Slimfast diet is a piece of piss until day two when you’ve had three hours sleep and someone offers you a Wagon Wheel. Of course, I never WANT to shout at them. I love them more than words can describe. But those you love are also the ones blessed with the innate ability to boil your piss q

The Time I Smeared Shit on the Duvet

My wife and I developed our parenting systems through trial and error. One of the earliest rules we’d introduced was that if it was after 5am and one of the babies became unsettled, we wouldn’t waste our time trying to get them back down in their cot - we’d just bring them in with us. After a nice cuddle in our bed, they’d normally settle back down, barring the occasional impromptu fanny gouge or affable bollock kick. (Babies are the most violent sleepers on the planet, easily capable of committing GBH in the middle of reaching for their dummy.) Our twins were six months old. I was fast asleep. At least, the deepest sleep you can get once your kids arrive. My pre-kids sleep used to be the nocturnal equivalent of deep sea diving. Nowadays I’m lucky if I can submerge my toes in a puddle. Early on, my sleep was lighter than a Ryvita biscuit who’d been having it off with a helium canister they’d met on Tinder. Everything woke me up. Some nights I’d just lie there, bewi

The Time I Got Sent to the Naughty Step

The naughty step is only as powerful as the child allows it to be. I once sent my son there and 20 seconds later he came racing through the living room on his fucking bike. I briefly tried to return him to his pleasantly carpeted penitentiary but I was far too busy giggling. On another occasion, my lad wouldn’t go to bed and instead plonked himself down on the bottom of the stairs in defiance. I started to threaten him with a trip to the dreaded step of naughtiness. ‘IF YOU DON’T GET TO BED RIGHT NOW, I’ll, erm….’ I tailed off as I realised he was already sitting on the effing naughty step and my threat now made less sense than Welsh hip-hop. I could see on his little face, he’d worked this out too. He threw me a smirk that said, ‘You’ll do what, knobhead?’ I felt it crucial not to back down. So I continued: ‘I’LL PUT YOU ON THE NAUGHTY STEP, YOUNG MAN!’ ‘But I’m already on it!’ he snorted. My brain turned to scrambled egg. ‘WELL THEN!’ I had nothing. Bu

Sam Avery

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