Why I pray for Glasto hell

Schadenfreude, that is delighting in other people's misery, is an uncommon emotion you may experience while watching footage of people sheltering under a tarpaulin after an earthquake or another similar disaster, but for some reason I'm on schadenfreude overload whenever I see people up to their necks in mud in inadequate Argos tents at Glastonbury.

What we needed this week was a nice dry spell from Monday to Friday so rain wouldn't stop play at Wimbledon and then a biblical downpour during the weekend to ensure maximum misery for all those who'd invested in the annual shindig on Worthy Farm.

This emotion is at odds with the fact that the festival has seemingly brought joy to the lives of millions while maintaining its progressive ideals, best expressed by the continued donations of part of the profits to charities like Oxfam, CND and Greenpeace. By 2003 £1 million was given away. In fact Buster Merryfield impersonator and festival boss Michael Eavis seems like a thoroughly decent type.

The schandenfreude might be caused by tall-poppy resentment of success. In 2007 (for example) Glasto sold 137,500 tickets at £145 in one-hour-and 45-minutes. It could also be that when I attended the event it was like the Wild West country with (apologies people of Liverpool) a disproportionate number of 'scallies' arriving with no provisions. "How on earth will those poor chaps survive?" I wondered, before they tore through the site like a plague of locusts stealing tents and their contents.

Glasto responded with the super fence in 2002 which drastically reduced crime. Despite being very responsive to the concerns of revelers there are usually some logistical hiccups. I've experienced Ryanair length delays trying to get out of the car park for no apparent reason.

None of that is why I pray for Glasto hell. I'm infuriated by Glastonbury, not because of the people who organise it, but by the people that go there. The reason I hate them is because they're actually having a terrible time but just can't admit it to themselves, let alone anyone else. In fact I reckon they're all going there just so they can talk about it afterwards and get some good images of themselves acting happy for Facebook.

[Gallery: Glastonbury Festival in pictures]

I mean what is there to enjoy? All you do is mill from one place to the next all day long, thinking: "It's boring here, whatshisname is over there, lets go over there. Oh we're here now and surprise, surprise we can barely hear the band, let alone see them." For that matter what are you meant to do when you're standing watching live music? A bit of swaying is sometimes possible in the crush but usually the neck-stretch, straining to see is the only move that makes sense. Burn all those flags too, I don't care that you're from Wales or what football team you support, no-one does.

Trying to get drunk to ease the tedium of the incessant milling is not as easy as you might hope as there are massive queues for all the bars and when you finally get served you have to pay over the odds for a watery pint (served in flimsy plastic) you'd never have chosen were it not for the fact that the brand has wangled exclusive beer distribution rights across the whole festival.

The misery is so great that drug taking is the only way to get the endorphins flowing (in fact about 50% of people at a festival are only there to provide them with an excuse to get high like they did when they were young.)

All of this pain and suffering at the cost of a week's holiday where you could have returned to work well-rested and tanned and not looking like you've been on a city-break to Faluja.

The truth is I want Glasto hell so everyone will admit they hate it too.