Glastonbury Festival is imminent. You should know this because every single stinking update on Facebook is counting down to the non-event like some mud-clogged Doomsday Clock.

People from all over the world are bracing themselves for a weekend of squinting into pixelated screens three miles from the stage, dodging hugs from Earth Mothers and ducking lobbed cups full of dog puke.

Oh, and Status Quo are on.

Glasto is a phenomenon, no question. A rampaging, all-consuming one at that. Then again, so was swine flu. Without doubt, the Glastonbury Festival envelopes every single journalist in the country like local farmhands staring at the circus truck full of freaks rolling into town. Except this truck invariably runs on maize oil and smells of a mixture of B.O. and patchouli oil.

Not that anyone lets on.

You see, ask a reveller about the spectacle and they’ll tell you one of two things. The first is to “lighten up”, which is easier said than done when you’ve got 4,000 mongs shouting “BOLLOOOOCKS!” in waves across a field full of human shit and nine guy-ropes wrapped around your leg after a dash to the overflowing cesspools at three in the morning. The second is that Glasto “isn’t a just a festival… it’s an experience, man” So is getting a punch in the mouth. So is sitting in a bus shelter getting spat at. So is taking a leak in a swimming pool.

Having attended around a dozen of Britain’s festivals, I know exactly what ‘the experience’ entails. It revolves around bumping into pissed, pink-faced lads in Stone Roses t-shirts honking their lungs up into metal bins which have been painted by local school children and trying to avoid the onslaught of humus-weaving middle class hipster mung-munchers who favour sarongs and bindhis for the weekend in an attempt to fool themselves that they’re markedly different from the rest of the world, despite the fact that they’re dressed like every other ‘burb-dwelling poindexter, numbering 40,000 at one of the world’s most commercial events.

Even if you’re going ‘for the music’, you’re still an idiot. Glastonbury is one of the most conservative musical get-togethers on the circuit. I mean, you’re telling me that The Ting Tings, Gabrielle Cilmi, Bruce Springsteen, Kasabian, Pendulum, Paulo Nutini, Tom Jones, Lady GaGa and Black Eyed Peas are anything but mainstream shite? Reading the Glasto line-up is, for the most part, like climbing inside Gary Bushell’s iPod.

There’s even bigger fools who will say things like “You could avoid every single band at Glastonbury and still have an amazing time” which again, is a completely inaccurate myth peddled by vapid, glass-eyed camper van drivers too dreamy to wake up and smell the £3 cup of instant coffee bought from a van pouring out acrid fumes into the Somerset sky. Glastonbury, away from the stages and tents, has lots going on, sure, but for the most part it’s the faint promise of a shower from a mobile phone company or a bloke showing you how he makes table legs with a wooden machine he’s fashioned over a decade in some futile attempt to be at one with some woolly notion in his head.

Failing that, you can encounter stall after stall of mass-produced jester hats, tacky leather wristbands and Made In An Indian Sweatshop t-shirts that say ‘Don’t Drink And Drive, Get Stoned And Fly’. Or, if you prefer, clothes made out of hemp. Which is so lame that it barely warrants a mention.

The simple matter of the fact is, that Glasto is only different from any other festival because it’s so stupidly big. The stages are so far apart that, should One Band You Like be on a different stage straight after That Other Band You Like, you can easily miss half the set as you fight your way through crowded gates, trudge through an ocean of shit and leg it as fast as you can, only to be met with an impenetrable wall of sweaty dickheads waving flags with witless slogans written on them.

Festivals are greeted with such unbridled joy because, if you face the reality of the situation you find yourself in and don’t swill booze like prohibition just got lifted, and hoover up class A drugs like a depressed prostitute, you’ll sit in a field and weep for three days straight. Glastonbury is a thoroughly miserable experience for anyone with a functioning brain or, at the very least, one working eye and one working nostril.

It’s camping… only incredibly expensive… surrounded by preening, braying dolts… soundtracked by the most average bands you ever did hear on Radio One. If you’re going, you’re probably too thick or misguided to read this article. Go away.

This was a guest blog by mighty Mof Gimmers from the equally mighty Electric Roulette. You be a square if you don’t check it, bwoy.

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Ours included Maury Povich getting scientifically cross-bred with a shark.

But then the doctor came out and told us she wasn't dying, she just had lungs filled to the tippy top with crack cocaine and cigarette butts. Is that what the doctor said? Well, we don't actually remember as we were too relieved to pay attention.

But she eventually escaped that hospital and flew all the way to Glastonbury, where she put on a super-human performance complete with bass lines, drum beats, and several introductions between a fan and her angry fist.

She punched a guy for either touching her boob or her hair, depending on who you ask. We have video.

The nice thing about outdoor music festivals is standing two inches from a fat man's hairy back as it glistens just so under the one o'clock sun. Another nice thing about outdoor music festivals is you can go there to historically not listen to rap music, or listen to rap music a full day later than you'd originally intended.

And at Glastonbury if you pay the full admission price, you can get punched in the face by Amy Winehouse as many times as you'd like. The experience is reportedly a better souvenir than a concert T-shirt, and probably gives you the option to sue a rich celebrity, if that's what you're into.
The Daily News explains how great this could be:

"Before wrapping [her set] up, the singer launched into "Rehab" – and repeatedly punched an audience member in the front row while working the crowd. Winehouse kept singing while she threw her right hook, by the way."

Now that's showmanship! It reminds us slightly of the time we had to keep knitting a sweater while a hungry cougar clawed violently at our back. We don't remember why. The sweater got finished in decent time, but got some weird red stain all along its backside the first time we tried it on.

We think it was paint.

Anyway – would you like to see Winehouse pummel some guy? Well just you have at it then.

There are all sorts of festivals to cater for all sorts of musical tastes in all four corners of the world. The main ones kick off at this time of year and hecklerspray is here to tell you all you need to know about each festival, who the essential people are to see and which act to avoid so you can queue up for the overflowing poo-filled portaloos.

Here it comes again, the daddy of the UK festival and the creation of one mad farmer that has spawned hundreds of crap clones – Glastonbury. Known to typically piss it down whenever it's held, this doesn’t stop thousands of people gathering in fields fill of cowshit to enjoy music from all over the world.

Unlike other festivals like T in the Park, V, Oxygen and Leeds/Reading, Glastonbury tends to have a more unique bill. Most bands who have albums to promote will be playing at all of the above in the attempt to get you to buy a copy and not nick off it the web.

For the first time in years, you can still reportedly buy tickets for this coming weekend. It’s a first for Glastonbury as most of the time, the tickets fly quicker then one of Naomi Campbell’s punches. A whole host of reasons have been blamed. People are reportedly sick of the weather and don’t want to spend their weekend covered in mud and having unplanned wrestling fights with people who are off their tits on ketamine. But the more popular excuse is the choice of headliner!

Apparently, everyone believes Glastonbury is a rock festival and anyone who doesn’t have a guitar isn’t allowed to come and play. The brains of Oasis, Noel Gallagher, believes that because Jay-Z is a hip-hop artist, he shouldn’t be allowed to headline. Maybe his band of no-hopers would have been asked if they’d made a decent album since Definitely Maybe and hadn’t ballsed up their previous appearances over petty arguments.

Noel probably forgets that the rock vibe of the festival transferred over from a folk festival from when it was initially started out. Maybe the future of hip-hop scares him. But as we’ve mentioned, there is plenty of talent for people to watch this weekend. Be it an established band or something new and a bit unique.

Friday – Go go go!

Foals – Because they hail from Brighton, this apparently makes them 10% trendier then us, which isn’t hard. Soon to be massive, they’ve done well to make it on to the Other Stage.

Glasvegas –They will be your new favorite band by the end of the year.

Friday – Avoid Like The Plague:

Pete Doherty – We’ll be amazed if he either a) turns up as scheduled or b) does his set without some sort of narcotic in his system.

The Hoosiers – When they come on, it may be time to go to the toilet. However, don’t go and queue at the bog, piss in your empty bottle and throw it at this poor excuse for a band.

Saturday – Go go go!

Massive Attack – Groundbreaking band who created an entire genre. Expect them to showcase new material from an overdue album. Bootlegs on Youtube sound promising.

Jay-Z – Tons of people have slagged him off, but no-one knows what he’s going to bring to the festival. At least give him a chance. And his wife is hot.

Saturday – Avoid Like The Plague:

Black Kids – One of those bands who are meant to be cutting edge but are just a bit of a let down. Why they need two synth players is beyond us. They're not producing the sounds of Glastonbury legends Orbital on them that’s for sure.

Cerys Matthews – She was that jungle women whose career in Catatonia bombed after that song about two characters from the X-Files. Has she released anything since all the Australian insects?

Sunday – Go go go!

UNKLE – Live sets are rare and always an experience. Because it’s a festival gig, expect a lot of possible guests to collaborate.

Martina Topley Bird – Amazing voice, but hasn’t been noticed because she doesn’t fall out of London clubs with her tits hanging out. An undiscovered talent.

Sunday – Avoid Like The Plague:

Mark Ronson – Learn to play your own fucking songs and stop being such a smug twat.

The Verve – Headlining ten years later than expected, it’s a gig for balding men to go all Britpop on everyone’s ass. New song Love Is Noise is gash.

There’s so much more we’d recommend without bleating on, but we’re sure you’ll encounter Ethiopian free style Jazz on your own. Or with a drunk hippie.