This weekend is meant to be Glastonbury and while we’re sure you’re incredibly sad you’re not bopping along to the likes of Kendrick Lamar or Noel Gallagher, spare a thought for the hundreds of volunteers denied the privilege, nay, the honour of cleaning up after 200,000 of us.

Let alone those tasked with the job of cleaning the toilets.

Ah yes, the famous green, steel long-drops of Glasto – you can see them now, can’t you?

From the squeaky doors giving us the kind of ASMR we didn’t ask for, to the sweet, sweet aroma that fills the air, wafting to a 20-metre radius from day two. There’s nothing quite like the kind of bonding that goes on with your fellow man, waiting for a bunch of drunken punters, fresh from a sweaty sesh at Shangri-La, to do their business in between sets at 3am, crossing your thighs with the kind of force that could squash a watermelon, before finally finding a free cubicle only to nearly gag on the pungent gift left behind by the guy before you.

For those who know, that hauntingly vivid description probably needed a trigger warning.

But for Alice, 30, her time as a volunteer at Worthy Farm is filled with delightful memories.

Tasked with the job of a toilet cleaner at the 2015 festival, the Bristol native was one of the lucky ones – that is, she was put on the medics’ tent.

She is what you call a blessed one.

When she missed out on tickets, Alice caught wind (pun well and truly intended) through a mate’s mother who ran a toilet cleaning company that they could weasel their way into the Pilton festival by volunteering on the loos.

Knowing it could all go so wrong and they’d be on the public lavatories, Alice soon found herself catching a buggy each morning to make sure the medics were sitting on thrones of cleanliness

On shifts with her cousin, it was a blessing to be paired with a trusted co-cleaner, as she explains: ‘We’d be hungover and take it in turns to have a nap on the toilet.

‘If someone was coming, we’d knock on the door to warn one another.

‘[Back at camp] others might have been put on the John Peel Stage, moaning about it – but we’d just had a three-hour nap on our toilet.’

It doesn’t sound so bad, we have to say. Suppose there is a caveat…

‘Luckily we were on the medics’ toilet, so we didn’t get the disgusting portaloo experience, but I camped with people who had really bad experiences,’ she tells us. ‘We still had a great time!’

Alice went on: ‘We did four shifts of six hours, but then we had the rest of the time free. It was a really good setup: we went on the Monday and did the full week, as lots of workers [were already there]. Plus it was lovely weather.’

Speaking of what it was like in the lap of toilet luxury in a festival known for its punters embracing the filth, Alice says: ‘The medics’ [toilets] are lovely and it was quite quiet, on the other side of the campsite. We’d have to be taken up on a buggy, but we could still hear the music.’

Still, one point upon hearing Florence + the Machine take to the stage had Alice ‘wanting to cry’ as she scrubbed the toilet bowls far from the musical action.

Given primo camping rights with the other festival volunteers, she explains the lush (by Glasto camping standards) living quarters they had, with ‘a marquee with showers, a kettle and toaster’, adding: ‘To have a warm shower at Glasto is unheard of. I’d do it again, definitely.

‘We didn’t get our food paid for, but it was a lot cheaper seeing as we had a toaster. Plus we saved the money on the ticket, and got £100 at the end.’

Would she do it again?

Hey, never say never: ‘I’m 30 now so not sure how I’d feel about it. It was definitely a good laugh at the time.’

So please, as you tune into BBC today or YouTube old Glasto sets, spare a thought for the heroes working behind the scenes to make sure our thrones are sparkling clean.

Or at least devoid of obvious excrement.

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