They say if you remember Glastonbury, you weren't there – well, I do remember it, and I was there.
Every time I look in the mirror and see my sunburnt face - I remember. Every time I try to turn on my expensive, muddy, broken camera - I remember. Every time I try to walk on my bruised and battered feet – I remember.
Four days in June on a farm in Somerset may sound like the perfect setting for a new ITV Sunday-night feel-good drama, but believe me - Rosemary and Thyme, Glastonbury ain't.
As a 31-year-old man with a big telly and comfy sofa framing much of my simple existence, the opportunity to "slum it" at the world's most prestigious music festival seemed appealing. I'm glad I did it, but in the past tense I think it'll probably stay.
Let's start with the positives. There is no other festival (that I know of) with such a fantastic, rich and diverse selection of contemporary arts on display. There is something to suit all tastes – from big-hitting stadium rockers to men dropping their trousers for a cheap laugh, every aspect of the "artistic" spectrum is represented somewhere on the vast, sprawling site.
Want to be "healed" by a hippie? You got it. Fond of Kamikaze Karaoke? It's available. Like jumping up and down filled with herbal highs next to a giant fire-breathing metal spider? No problem at all.
All this and many of the world's most prestigious recording artists of every conceivable genre performing across umpteen stages and tents for 180,000 revellers – how could it get better?
Well, in many ways it can't.
Being part of a seemingly infinite crowd for the headliners on the Pyramid stage is a very special feeling. Having to constantly choose between seeing two bands you like is a nice problem to have. And generally not having too much to do except drink beer and discover whatever the festival throws at you is a nice change of pace from the daily ritual of queuing at Oxford Circus tube station for a smelly, sweaty train to take you home.
However, there is a price to pay – one that's measurable both financially, physically and mentally.
Let's start with the cash. In 1971, entry to the first Glastonbury Festival cost £1, and that included all the milk you could drink from the farm. A quick (and probably inaccurate) calculation tells me that in today's money that works out at about £11.
But to get into Glasto 2011, you need a ticket that costs the best part of £200 – and that doesn't include a drop of cow juice.
Entry fee aside, once within the steel fence that protects Worthy Farm from unwanted festival-goers, getting ripped off becomes the order of the day.
The majority of the food is unpleasant and overpriced – look, I said it.
Although no "big brands" are allowed on the site, the "smaller" stallholders, especially in the central areas, are quite aware they have a captive market (and presumably have to recoup the high pitch fees they've paid out) and therefore ensure that your weekend becomes an expensive one.
A stale bread roll filled with something costs between £4 and £7 – chips are, on the whole, another £2.50. A plate of dry chicken and noodles comes in around £6 or £7.
In addition, at £2 for a tin of pop or a bottle of water, simply staying rehydrated for the weekend can cost you a day's salary. That's the spirit of '71, right?
Next, let's get physical. The festival is a huge site, so much of your time is spent walking mile upon mile through the mud to see the act or event of your liking.
On day one this is fine - I'd go as far as to say "fun". However, then comes camping in a swamp, hauling muddy boots off and attempting to keep your tent dry and clean... from my experience this is impossible.
You are then expected to sleep in the freezing cold, which by first light becomes the baking heat, whilst those outside your paper-thin, non-soundproofed castle continue to dance to inordinately loud beats throughout the night.
In the morning, the queue for the showers is so long, you can't be bothered to wash the filth and sweat from your battered body, so you drag your boots out of the mud, fall over and stumble back towards the next band.
Repeat to fade.
The trench foot you can deal with, feeling like you've gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson you get used to, the blisters on the feet become tolerable... but slowly, mentally you begin to be broken down.
Maybe it's because I'm too old, maybe it's because I'm not "tough enough", maybe I'm just a misanthrope – but by Sunday I was looking forward to the sweet sound of a washing machine whirring and a seat that wasn't covered in mud, grass or worse.
Yes, for some, this festival may be the only place to be. I can only presume they have more of a penchant than me for insomnia, body odour and young men with eyes like dinner plates, chewing their tongues.
Don't get me wrong - Glastonbury Festival is an extraordinary place, and I can see why people flock there in their droves year after year. I thoroughly enjoyed much of my time down on the farm. But between you and me, when it comes round again in 2013, I think I'll probably take the easy way out and watch it on the telly.