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Because I never write about Glastonbury
In all the time I’ve been going, I don’t think I’ve ever written about Glastonbury.
Even talking about it, I am conscious of not conveying how it feels, what it’s like, how it’s shaped my life, my attitude and my values. And I may fail here as well. But that’s no reason not to try.
Here are the consistencies:
It is the festival of the Moment. Always personal, but also often shared, sometimes communal. This year I was blessed with many.
Wednesday morning, 6am. Hometown Train station. Met festival buddy for this year.
Weds 2.30 pm – Castle Cary Train station. The 15th bus was ours. Cider bet won.
Wed 4.30pm – top of the site, tent erect, pink wine in plastic bottle, in circle of friends with site spread out glinting in the sunshine.
Wed evening cider bus. Squeals of excitement with each fresh hug, each reunited person. Happy appley drunken grins as we compare sunburn.
Wed night. The mad hyper joy of the first perambulation. I’m here, we’re here, this is happening. Febrile excitement exudes from each and every soul, producing a thrilled and thrilling thrum underscored by the bass of the music pumped from the food stalls as the lights scurry and skip in all directions.
Thurs day. Girls go gallivanting. The look on Mandy’s face as whisked her from the thronged tracks into the permaculture garden. Riff’s delight as she discovered the solar-powered phone charger.
Thursday. Bliss of Tiny Tea Tent shade as the world swelters and the conversation turns to the Glastonbury death rumours. We wonder whether it really will be Cliff this year.
Thursday. District 6 Beer tent. Look up from texting new festival buddy to see him emerge with pints. Meet lovely new Glasto crew.
Thursday afternoon. Flag hill. Loving the poi as the day’s fierce heat fades.
Thursday evening. Enclosed in awesome math-designed and hand-erected Geodesic dome as the thunder storm roils and rages.
Thursday night. Above the ribbon tower as a glowing Glastonbury sprawls before us. Room in the bus shelters as the rain returns to shatter down on the zinc. Momentary colourwash poi.
Friday morning. Slow Club triumph over over-officious and under-organised security by coming outside the Guardian Lounge to play, just after it stops raining.
Friday morning – tea at Tree House cafe with Riff just as the sun emerges. Find log sunlounger and kick off boots as hip-hop karaoke competes with Supergrass-in-disguise playing covers.
Friday later. Against the Pyramid middle barrier. Laugh in delight and yell along as Lily Allen liquorice-whips her Dad with He Wasn’t There, then silences the cleavage-heckling boys with Not Fair. Sing with me: “There’s just one thing/ that’s getting in the way/ When we go up to bed/ you’re just no good/ It’s such a shame”. Oddly enough, the crowd-choir turned soprano at that point.
Friday next. Succeed in finding 3 sets of friends on Pyramid Hill between Lily Allen and The Specials
Friday night. Between The Streets at Jazzworld and Bloc Party on the Other Stage, I find a brilliant gypsy folk band playing in a tent to 3 people. Go up to the front and dance. 2 songs later, tent is full of dancers and I slip onwards to Bloc Party.
Friday night / Saturday morning – kaleidoscope : trash city (steampunk and firespouts, Warhol-and-blondie NY, tranny bars and scrapmetal), bonfire bar, Shangri-la (warren of subterranean Japenese slum alleys, and spaces, green light and fritzing screens, industrial electronica and anime, disco dancing and up the site in the pearlesque pre-dawn. Transient kisses and the long misty/mystical walk to the furthest point away where my tent waits, silently for me.
Saturday. Woken by Beatles covers and sit in pancake circle, loving my friends.
Saturday morning – we head off for Rolf via Yeo Valley for £1 pint of yogurt. Yum.
Sat noon. Cabaret fields. Escape from the Rolf-crush in front of a cabaret stage with lovely shady roof . Lovely African band are playing and after we play Glastonbury Bingo. A calming couple of hours while away.
Sat afternoon. Pyramid. Find Rainbows and Vimeses for Spinal Tap. Hurrah. Jarvis plays bass on Big Bottom. Then Dizzy Rascal is fun and I am energised.
Sat –after Dizzy. Kidnap Rainbowgirl and introduce her to the child-free delights of Cajun food and Healing Fields.
Sat later. Wander up to the Tipi Field where my accidental cheekiness is rewarded by temporary adoption by the Brighton Tipi posse. Stay til the shadows catch up.
Sat dusk. Drift into the healing fields, firecircle when the sun is a ball of red, water circle as the circle dips, then on the grass for the best possible juxtaposition of tree. As I finish pulling on tights, Ian appears.
Sat moonrise. Wander into wonders – handfasting, glowing labyrinths and dragon pointing at the moon - in the Greenfield with Ian as we have a snapshot of the festival we spent together and a shared contentment of where our lives have gone, separately, since. We re-glimpse our soul-bond and it is enough. It is just right.
Sat night. Franz Ferdinand – it’s a party. Glaswegian girls and I meet, disco-dance, gossip, giggle, yell along, dance, hug, kiss and part. It is the embodiment of hilarity.
Sat night. After walking up the hill and getting my ten minute dose of Bruce, the campsite is a giggle. We banter and chatter til the cold chases us up to tents as the wash of site-chatter tips us into sleep.
Sunday morning. Make tactical error and drink some vodka as I take down my tent in blazing sunshine and Quo bombast. 2 hours later, am finally packed and headed for lock-ups.
Sunday afternoon -330 pm. Remember I need to eat and head for green fields caff. Eventually dine on roast beetroot and sticky fig cake. Revive.
Sunday Afternoon – Pyramid – look for friends without mobile and doze to Tom Jones. Find friends before Madness, then lose them again.
Sunday dusk – Pyramid enclosure. Settle at the back against the barrier, covered in newspapers for a short shower, then Nick Cave glowering, prowling and predatory, slices through the cheese of the day. Yummy mummies painting children’s faces and waiting for Blur, blanch as he scatterguns murder and profanity. We exchange grins as we howl.
Sunday night – the fervour and the crowds build until Blur explode through. 15 years drop away for me, and for them, as Tracy Jacks produces pogo madness once more. For my money, the best Pyramid-closer ever. The crowd singing “Oh my baby” from Tender to lure the band back reduces Damon to tears. He’s not alone.
Sunday night – after Blur – I’m so happy I burn. And am awash with luck. Find Chris, get night clothes, bid camp farewell (too hyper to stay for bonfire), find dome, find stone circle, find underground stage as the rain returns, enjoy thunder and singsongs, emerge as the rain leaves, change sandals for boots and bid farewell to this year’s Glasto buddy and the fantastic(al) dome.
Monday morning – the sky is already light as I leave the dome and meander for the last time through the site, saying goodbye to The Park, the flags, the Tipi field, the Stone Circle. Shangri-la is mud and rivers running through the alleys, as desperate strays with no pupils left continue to lurch and sway. Flame still belches in Trash City, but has been forced to pale by the brightening skies. I gloop through the mud next to the now-accessible dancehalls and bordellos, but do not enter.
Onwards, onwards. Farewell to Avalon, and Jazzworld. Goodbye to cabaret and theatre fields. So long to Babylon.
Upwards, upwards. Goodbye sweet Pyramid, bonfire party still going full swing. Goodbye farmhouse filled with the Eavises to whom we owe all this. Goodbye longdrops, longhill, longview. Goodbye my sleeping friends, and thank you. Thank you and goodbye lock-ups.
Hello sunshine. Hello bus. Hello my journey into next year.
Even talking about it, I am conscious of not conveying how it feels, what it’s like, how it’s shaped my life, my attitude and my values. And I may fail here as well. But that’s no reason not to try.
Here are the consistencies:
- I have always bought a ticket – I just felt that it was such a privilege to be there and if Eavis was kind enough to create it, the least I could do was pay my way. Student, unemployed and working – always paid.
- I have always agreed with Eavis’s verdict at the end of every festival – best festival ever. The most recent is always the best. You want to yearn for the good old days, then stay away and nostalge all you like.
It is the festival of the Moment. Always personal, but also often shared, sometimes communal. This year I was blessed with many.
Wednesday morning, 6am. Hometown Train station. Met festival buddy for this year.
Weds 2.30 pm – Castle Cary Train station. The 15th bus was ours. Cider bet won.
Wed 4.30pm – top of the site, tent erect, pink wine in plastic bottle, in circle of friends with site spread out glinting in the sunshine.
Wed evening cider bus. Squeals of excitement with each fresh hug, each reunited person. Happy appley drunken grins as we compare sunburn.
Wed night. The mad hyper joy of the first perambulation. I’m here, we’re here, this is happening. Febrile excitement exudes from each and every soul, producing a thrilled and thrilling thrum underscored by the bass of the music pumped from the food stalls as the lights scurry and skip in all directions.
Thurs day. Girls go gallivanting. The look on Mandy’s face as whisked her from the thronged tracks into the permaculture garden. Riff’s delight as she discovered the solar-powered phone charger.
Thursday. Bliss of Tiny Tea Tent shade as the world swelters and the conversation turns to the Glastonbury death rumours. We wonder whether it really will be Cliff this year.
Thursday. District 6 Beer tent. Look up from texting new festival buddy to see him emerge with pints. Meet lovely new Glasto crew.
Thursday afternoon. Flag hill. Loving the poi as the day’s fierce heat fades.
Thursday evening. Enclosed in awesome math-designed and hand-erected Geodesic dome as the thunder storm roils and rages.
Thursday night. Above the ribbon tower as a glowing Glastonbury sprawls before us. Room in the bus shelters as the rain returns to shatter down on the zinc. Momentary colourwash poi.
Friday morning. Slow Club triumph over over-officious and under-organised security by coming outside the Guardian Lounge to play, just after it stops raining.
Friday morning – tea at Tree House cafe with Riff just as the sun emerges. Find log sunlounger and kick off boots as hip-hop karaoke competes with Supergrass-in-disguise playing covers.
Friday later. Against the Pyramid middle barrier. Laugh in delight and yell along as Lily Allen liquorice-whips her Dad with He Wasn’t There, then silences the cleavage-heckling boys with Not Fair. Sing with me: “There’s just one thing/ that’s getting in the way/ When we go up to bed/ you’re just no good/ It’s such a shame”. Oddly enough, the crowd-choir turned soprano at that point.
Friday next. Succeed in finding 3 sets of friends on Pyramid Hill between Lily Allen and The Specials
Friday night. Between The Streets at Jazzworld and Bloc Party on the Other Stage, I find a brilliant gypsy folk band playing in a tent to 3 people. Go up to the front and dance. 2 songs later, tent is full of dancers and I slip onwards to Bloc Party.
Friday night / Saturday morning – kaleidoscope : trash city (steampunk and firespouts, Warhol-and-blondie NY, tranny bars and scrapmetal), bonfire bar, Shangri-la (warren of subterranean Japenese slum alleys, and spaces, green light and fritzing screens, industrial electronica and anime, disco dancing and up the site in the pearlesque pre-dawn. Transient kisses and the long misty/mystical walk to the furthest point away where my tent waits, silently for me.
Saturday. Woken by Beatles covers and sit in pancake circle, loving my friends.
Saturday morning – we head off for Rolf via Yeo Valley for £1 pint of yogurt. Yum.
Sat noon. Cabaret fields. Escape from the Rolf-crush in front of a cabaret stage with lovely shady roof . Lovely African band are playing and after we play Glastonbury Bingo. A calming couple of hours while away.
Sat afternoon. Pyramid. Find Rainbows and Vimeses for Spinal Tap. Hurrah. Jarvis plays bass on Big Bottom. Then Dizzy Rascal is fun and I am energised.
Sat –after Dizzy. Kidnap Rainbowgirl and introduce her to the child-free delights of Cajun food and Healing Fields.
Sat later. Wander up to the Tipi Field where my accidental cheekiness is rewarded by temporary adoption by the Brighton Tipi posse. Stay til the shadows catch up.
Sat dusk. Drift into the healing fields, firecircle when the sun is a ball of red, water circle as the circle dips, then on the grass for the best possible juxtaposition of tree. As I finish pulling on tights, Ian appears.
Sat moonrise. Wander into wonders – handfasting, glowing labyrinths and dragon pointing at the moon - in the Greenfield with Ian as we have a snapshot of the festival we spent together and a shared contentment of where our lives have gone, separately, since. We re-glimpse our soul-bond and it is enough. It is just right.
Sat night. Franz Ferdinand – it’s a party. Glaswegian girls and I meet, disco-dance, gossip, giggle, yell along, dance, hug, kiss and part. It is the embodiment of hilarity.
Sat night. After walking up the hill and getting my ten minute dose of Bruce, the campsite is a giggle. We banter and chatter til the cold chases us up to tents as the wash of site-chatter tips us into sleep.
Sunday morning. Make tactical error and drink some vodka as I take down my tent in blazing sunshine and Quo bombast. 2 hours later, am finally packed and headed for lock-ups.
Sunday afternoon -330 pm. Remember I need to eat and head for green fields caff. Eventually dine on roast beetroot and sticky fig cake. Revive.
Sunday Afternoon – Pyramid – look for friends without mobile and doze to Tom Jones. Find friends before Madness, then lose them again.
Sunday dusk – Pyramid enclosure. Settle at the back against the barrier, covered in newspapers for a short shower, then Nick Cave glowering, prowling and predatory, slices through the cheese of the day. Yummy mummies painting children’s faces and waiting for Blur, blanch as he scatterguns murder and profanity. We exchange grins as we howl.
Sunday night – the fervour and the crowds build until Blur explode through. 15 years drop away for me, and for them, as Tracy Jacks produces pogo madness once more. For my money, the best Pyramid-closer ever. The crowd singing “Oh my baby” from Tender to lure the band back reduces Damon to tears. He’s not alone.
Sunday night – after Blur – I’m so happy I burn. And am awash with luck. Find Chris, get night clothes, bid camp farewell (too hyper to stay for bonfire), find dome, find stone circle, find underground stage as the rain returns, enjoy thunder and singsongs, emerge as the rain leaves, change sandals for boots and bid farewell to this year’s Glasto buddy and the fantastic(al) dome.
Monday morning – the sky is already light as I leave the dome and meander for the last time through the site, saying goodbye to The Park, the flags, the Tipi field, the Stone Circle. Shangri-la is mud and rivers running through the alleys, as desperate strays with no pupils left continue to lurch and sway. Flame still belches in Trash City, but has been forced to pale by the brightening skies. I gloop through the mud next to the now-accessible dancehalls and bordellos, but do not enter.
Onwards, onwards. Farewell to Avalon, and Jazzworld. Goodbye to cabaret and theatre fields. So long to Babylon.
Upwards, upwards. Goodbye sweet Pyramid, bonfire party still going full swing. Goodbye farmhouse filled with the Eavises to whom we owe all this. Goodbye longdrops, longhill, longview. Goodbye my sleeping friends, and thank you. Thank you and goodbye lock-ups.
Hello sunshine. Hello bus. Hello my journey into next year.