How To Do Glastonbury. Or not...
Are you watching some not very good music and terrible links and non-interviews on every BBC channel? Great! Ten years ago The Guardian decided to send me there even though I did not want to go. The Guardian, like the BBC has a huge investment in ramping it all up. Look it’s all for a good cause and lots of folk have terrific fun. Do carry on.
But when I wrote my piece up, the paper was not best pleased, even though I didn’t even reveal the whole truth, so I may as well now.
(I call this picture Spoilt Cow in Horror Yurt). It is by Dave of course.
“Hello Glastonbury, I can't believe I am here," exclaim various over-excited stars from stages somewhere in the distance. Hello Glastonbury, I can't bloody believe I am here either, I want to shout back. Let's face it, if you get to my age and haven't been, it's probably because you didn't want to. And we all know the narrative by now, don't we? Cynical old person is sent to festival, wanders around and, inspired by half a cider, loons on stilts and a delusional attempt to have "an experience", they have some kind of epiphany. God, I remember when Boris Johnson did Glasto.
Fear not. I spent too many years packing my kids off to Glastonbury with tubes of Nutella, without asking too much about what they do, and watching it on telly eating Pringles to know I wasn't cut out for this even though I was vaguely jealous of one of mine ‘experiencing’ The Chemical Brothers.
“You will love it” said one of my editors.
My plus one, though fully female, had or some reason been put down as Dave. Despite the occasional lesbian overture after the odd cooking sherry, Dave, I thought would be ideal. She is up for most things. Also we were glamping. Our beds would be “cosy not intimate” said the brochure. Which could only be good.
We drunk a bottle of vodka on the train, Dave seeming to have no idea of where to get off thought I might. But no.
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