A Brit's Guide to Not Being a Bin at Primavera

As festival season crashes upon us once again, like me after six whiskey sours into a pile of rubbish outside McDonalds, it is important to begin the administrative process. Not the booking tickets, organising transport and purchasing an abundance of wet wipes sort of administration – that's baby stuff. I'm referring, of course, to sesh admin.

Each music festival has its own form of sesh admin tailored to match the specific nature and requirements of the sesh at hand. Field Day is basically just a heavy night out that you can cushion by aggressively carb loading in the morning. Glastonbury is a near week-long bender that requires at least a month of regular exercise and clean eating so you have the stamina to sprint the actual miles between stages fuelled by nothing but MDMA and Ritz crackers. If you're going to Burning Man you should probably bid farewell to all your friends and family first, who will fail to recognise you when you return with a new personality and quit your job in advertising to "do" India.

For Primavera Sound, which takes place next week in Barcelona, the admin is a little more nuanced. The festival is somewhat infamous for being tame. Not in a boring way – you just don't really see people beating the shit out of each other in the middle of a Japandroids set at 2PM because someone allegedly looked at someone funny. You don't really see anyone passed out in a puddle of sick and kebab meat, or paramedics rushing across the site to attend to a man who tried to prove he could do a standing backflip. These things are Great British binge drinking staples, and so their absence can be confusing for anyone who is used to a festival being an extended contest of who-can-get-the-most-hospitalised. Admin for Primavera requires an exercise in self-awareness.

As proven by Brexit and that feeling of genuine disgust that arises upon being served lager in a 500ml glass, British people don't quite "get" the rest of Europe. Culturally speaking we are, without a doubt, one of the worst things about it. We may have Harry Styles and chip shops, but we also have Piers Morgan and six to seven months of annual weather-based misery. So when we come into contact with café culture and something called "the sun" that I'm reliably informed is a source of health and happiness and not a noxious gas masquerading as a news source, we lose it. Any remaining shreds of self-respect are left in the departure lounge along with our tops and willingness to learn more than whatever "beer" is in the predominant language spoken at our destination. We are incapable of not being massive bins, basically, especially not outside the UK where ironically such behaviour is even less acceptable.

Don't worry though. I, a British passport holder and sentient 4-pack of Red Stripe in a wig, have been to Primavera Sound twice now, which, as far as my editor is concerned, makes me a good enough authority to tell you about all the mistakes I have made while getting tanked in the Catalonian capital so that you can avoid them. Embodying the one thing that is actually good about Britain, I'm going to present it to you as if it were an NHS pamphlet but without any actual science or fact-based information.

If you are being a bin the chances are you will be completely unaware of it until it's way too late, but signs can include: tapping your foot to "Blurred Lines", putting your sunglasses down and shrieking that you've lost them three minutes later, singing really loudly along to songs you don't know the words to, going "WAAAYYYYYY!!"

The Tories? Being raised in a society that positions binge drinking as the undisputed centrepiece around which friendships, relationships and work life all revolve? Because it's a laugh?

Pace yourself. It sounds basic, but when you've been up since dawn to catch an EasyJet flight from Luton the prospect of getting a pint at Est Bar followed by vodka minis on the plane followed by going straight to the shops to gather a bounty of €2 Cava upon landing is pretty tempting. Don't do it. I beg. Don't ruin your entire week by stumbling around Las Ramblas asking where the nearest KFC is at 2PM on Wednesday.

Speaking of which, Las Ramblas is a big boulevard that cuts directly through the city centre that has become something of a Venus Flytrap for tourists. It's big and busy and beautiful if you thrive in that sort of environment, sort of like Camden High Street in essence but with less overpriced second-hand vinyl and more men trying to sell you a cage full of rats. Specifically, Las Ramblas is full of bars that rake it in by exploiting tourists who haven't got to grips with the city yet because they just rolled out of their hostel in search of literally anything to put in their mouth.

I kind of feel bad revealing this to newcomers, because failing to navigate the nuances of a drinks menu that doesn't list the prices and getting spectacularly ripped off in a bar called "Top Tapas" is a rite of passage. I'm not sure what percentage of Barcelona's economy is made up of tourists throwing their money at the first establishment they see with a harshly lit photograph of paella on the menu, but it's probably healthy that people keep doing it. Long may the tradition reign! Here is one tip though: when ordering beer you will often be given choice between "small" and "large" because obviously you will say "large, are you mad?" And you will say this because you ignorantly assume that what you're ordering is a full pint instead of a ¾ one, when actually it's an enormous fucking goblet that requires the use of both hands to lift to your face – which is absolutely class until the bill comes and they're €20 each.

It's not like you won't get by with zero Spanish in your arsenal, but it's just the decent thing to do isn't it. Your generally obnoxious presence as a loud, annoying twat leaving a trail of crushed tins in your wake will be offset, by the tiniest slither, if you are not also communicating with people by saying "HOW MUCH ARE THE JELLY SHOTS" very slowly in a mock Spanish accent. You don't have to enrol on a course to get to grips with social niceties in another language. As a tourist, most of the phrases you'll find useful boil down to this very simple formula: number + cervezas and/or gesticulating towards the thing you want + por favor. Failing that, Google Translate is free.

In 2009 I went on a group holiday to Costa Brava. On the third day into a week-long trip my friend fell into a pavement face first and knocked his tooth out after performing Dolly Parton's "9 To 5" at a Scottish karaoke bar. Also in 2012, I severely misjudged the depth of a swimming pool and dove in head first to the tune of a bruised chin and a chipped incisor. I also spent about fifteen minutes total at the beach before losing my iPhone in the sand. Basically what I'm saying is don't ignore the possibility that you might get hurt or play yourself so get some insurance, and based on what I have experienced your dental health is particularly at risk.

Go to bed, I reckon.

You're going to do every single of these things aren't you, let's be honest, including the bit about smashing your teeth. Despite the sagest advice and the best of intentions, you're absolutely going to end up in the bin. We all end up there, eventually. We can't help it. We are all a wasteman's Icarus, flying too close to the sesh in a moment of hubris before falling into a massive existential skip. Pack some Milk Thistle and a respectable amount of painkillers and that'll probably get you a stone's throw away from a Bloody Mary and a trip to the beach, where you can fester until it's time to start all over again.

As for the emotional cure, I don't know what to tell you. If someone has brought a disposable camera with them, smash it to fucking bits.

Follow Emma on Twitter .

All photos author's own. Primavera Sound is on from Thursday 31 May to Sunday 4 June and is obviously sold out by now m8, Frank Ocean's playing.