"How an Agoraphobe Survived Europe's Loudest Lawn with a Wristband, a Dream, and Several Smash Burgers"

It all started with a dash of optimism, a sprinkle of naivety, and a whole lot of 'what could possibly go wrong?'

"Come to Rock Werchter!" they said. "It's iconic, it's electrifying!"

"It's 80,000 people on a lawn," whispered the small, terrified agoraphobe inside me.

And yet, there I was on Friday morning, tumbling out of a car somewhere in the sleepy Belgian countryside with a two-day wristband, access to the hospitality zone, and a look of mild dread that could curdle mayo.

Now, to clarify: I love music. I love people who love music. What I don't love is being pressed into a human soup under a blazing sun while someone with glitter on their nipples screams, "WE LOVE YOU, GREEN DAY!" directly into my left ear. My personal record for being in a crowd of that size? Approximately seven minutes. And I'm proud to report that at Werchter 2025, I matched it. A clean 7 minutes on the main stage lawn, dodging elbows and existential crises.

Thankfully, someone had the foresight (not me, obviously) to arrange hospitality access. It was like Coachella, but with aEuropean twist and a lot less glitter. A spacious private area with drinks, shade, stylish seating, and most importantly, no one trying to bedazzle your body parts.

The food was the real star of the show (sorry, Green Day). Belgian croquettes made an appearance stodgy, comforting, and tasting vaguely of memories I never had. Fries were everywhere, but none quite managed that glorious Flemish crunch, more "tired sauna potato" than crispy golden chip. Outside the sanctuary, a sea of food stalls beckoned: one claimed to be "Authentic Lebanese" and yet served tabbouleh with quinoa and something called "hummus aioli," which made me clutch my passport in distress.

But redemption came in the form of Jimmyz Smash Burger, which I believe should now qualify for protected heritage status: perfectly caramelised edges, soft buns, just enough grease to make you question your worthiness. I had one. Then a pizza. Then another burger. Had I not been vaguely tethered to the idea of a beach body (and the laws of cholesterol), I would've had four.

As for the music? I caught snippets from the Hospitality TV feed—Green Day rebelling, Sam Fender smouldering, Wet Leg being, well, Wet Leg. From a safe distance, they were all spectacular. But the real triumph was the quiet pride of doing something wildly out of character. My friends, who know my tendency to flee if a brunch table gets too chatty, were cheering my courage from miles away. I'd ventured into the wild, stayed upright, and only panic-sprinted once. It was a victory, no matter how small.

Would I go again? With a parachute-sized hat, industrial earplugs, and guaranteed hospitality access? Maybe. But next time I'm ordering four smash burgers, beach body be damned.