Not since the ineptly managed Fyre festival of 2017 have I taken such pleasure in the suffering of a group of unbearably obnoxious people.
The origins of Burning Man were pure. Founded nearly 40 years ago by two mates, Larry and Jerry, they decided in a moment of joy and gratitude to burn a wooden man on a beach in California to celebrate the summer solstice. What began as a carefree ritual has inevitably been bastardised over the decades by influencers, tech bros and one percenters. Normal tickets cost between $575 and $2,750 but people can spend up to $20,000 on the week-long festival — though it describes itself as commerce-free. Now, each year, the cynical among us, like me, sneer at the posturing of the “Burners”, as they call themselves. Imagine everyone you would normally avoid at Glastonbury — the “wacky” types — has congregated en masse in one place. Seventy thousand of them, to be precise, in the hot and dusty Nevada desert. Hell on earth, basically.
