Performing stand-up at a music festival is a little like trying to feed a pack of wild meerkats. They will initially regard you with intrigue, but the mass of alternative sights and sounds around them will keep their little heads darting about in unlimited directions.

In this partnership of feeder and potential muncher, it is imperative that one of us remain focused. I am paid to feed, so that responsibility is largely mine. At the 2008 Leeds Festival, I had a 2,000-strong crowd of youngsters; during the course of ten minutes, at least 500 left for another show, a spliff, a beer, a piss or simply pastures new, and an additional 500 arrived in fits and starts. There was an ever-overlapping chorus of: "Wooo! What's this? Oh, comedy? Cool. Woooo!" Where you can be nervous in a silent theatre and someone opening a can of beer can throw you, the music festival shines a whole new light on the word "distracting".

It's a fantastic challenge, however. The atmosphere tends to be charged, heavy with debauchery, substance abuse and silly hats - in all of which I cannot honestly say I would refuse to partake, too (when off duty).

In 2009, after a night of hardcore moshing at Bestival largely inspired by high-percentage lubrication and semi-nudity, I awoke in my friend Jim's one-man tent, sweating in the way that only two large men in a branded bin bag can. I had signed up for an afternoon slot on the comedy stage, which, I was less than overjoyed to discover, was only 100 metres from the main stage. The comedy stage, which should have offered the opportunity to sit in silence and listen to a person talking, was struggling. Of the smattering of dazed and confused morning-after-night-before victims I was talking at, 98 per cent understandably got up and buggered off when the hot young disco-rock waifs MGMT sauntered on next door and opened with the summer-defining strains of "Time to Pretend".

“I love this song!" screamed a girl in my paltry front row as she and the remaining few turned tail and scrammed.

“So did I, once," I said. Thank Christ for generous riders. The moment was quickly consigned to cider-soaked history.

At Latitude 2010, the power base had shifted. Fuelled by the rabid, punked-out lunacy of Guardian-reading, Radio 4-listening coriander pluckers, the comedians here were the rock stars; 3,000-plus punters, glued to the stage and big screens, were as captive an audience as any in a club.

Deviations from form such as manoeuvring a Bugaboo through the crowd or nipping in and out for a fair-trade latte were limited and politely executed. Sophisticated 13-year-olds named Maisie and Luca appreciated the references to the Eighties.

No matter which festival I play, there is usually so much fun to be had either side of the gig that my success or failure on stage quickly becomes incidental. I mean, Christ, there's neon-face-paint-smudging free love going on right outside! Good times.

For me, there is only ever one negative at any of these generally wondrous annual happenings: camping. I fucking hate camping. Always have, always will. I'll never forget Latitude 2009, when I turned up with my wife, two kids and a family tent-in-a-bag I had just purchased from Halfords which turned out to be the size of a Freightliner. Imagine my elation, as the sun went down and the rain started to fall, at un­zipping the bag for the first time ever and confronting a message reading: Warning: always ensure you practise erecting your tent before your vacation.

“What's that say?" my wife asked.

“Oh, nothing," I replied, tucking the message face down. Two hours later, my tears were somehow spotted through the rain by a pilled-up pair of youngsters - boy and girl whippets no older than 17. They took pity on me and put my tent up with consummate ease, for a pair whose combined girth of all four arms did not match that of my left ankle. I was naturally very grateful and promised not to shout abuse if ever I saw them playing ukuleles outside a juice bar on Bethnal Green Road. My tears, though still salty and copious, were now of joy.

Festivals - no matter who's on or where I'm at, they're always emotional. l

Doc Brown will be performing at festivals around the UK this summer. For further details visit: docbrown.co.uk