Don’t hold your breath, I’m having an Uncle Albert moment…back in my day, which wasn’t as long ago as you whippersnappers, with your lime vapes and Taylor Shift Spottyfly playlists, might imagine, media coverage of Glastonbury was far less. TV was left up to Katie Puckrik in pigtails on Channel 4, until a couple of off years when it pissed it down…..
Bad weather has become synonymous with the world’s legendary festival, and the press rub their hands together when it happens; a golden opportunity to sensationalise a negative stereotype of counterculture and youthfulness; double-whammy.
Every media outlet known to man jumped on the bandwagon to show selective imagery of a handful of intoxicated nutjobs WWF mud wrestling in a negative light, and tarnished every reveller with the same anti-bac j-cloth. 90,000 attended Glastonbury in 1997, officially, the first year it rained for a decade, if you saw x-amount of them on the telebox and assumed everyone was at it you just marginalised thousands with a miniscule percentage, and fell hook, line and sinker for their intentional misconception.
The further rightwing their sway, the more negative they were, “look at those filthy hippies rolling in their own faeces like swine,” and misguided Daily Mail bullshit akin. The truth is, once you’re in there is no going back, and try as you might to stay clean and dry, there comes a breaking point whereby even the fussiest among us realise they’re beaten. Rarely is it up to choice, as the media might portray.
But it put the festival in the media spotlight and television upped their game to show the festival in a positive light. The festival itself prevented the travellers attending and commercialised the experience into what it is today. It was do or die. Similar to our hero desperately trying to keep dry, the Evis family had no choice.
From 89 onwards I did twelve Glastonburys and the sun had his hat on every year until 97. It had rained the week leading up to the fateful day. I put my hefty work boots by my front door while I packed the rest in my car, as I didn’t want to drive in them, and forgot them!
I was left with a pair of designer pumps with all the grip of a Spiny Softshell Turtle, and by the time I arrived at the gate I was Elvis Costello; couldn’t stand up for falling down. My first job was to aim myself, best I could, towards a stall selling wellies. The stallowner was busy and in his element; delighted to rip half my Glastonbury budget off me and a multitude of other disorganised wallies, for a pair, while the guy next door flogging sunscreen considered selling his children to medical science.
My first top tip for a muddy Glastonbury then is rather obvious and perhaps a bit mumsie, but based on a bad experience.
A stout pair of walking boots is essential, and maybe plastic carrier bags as liners. If you forget the rest make sure you don’t be like me, Torvil or Dean. The boots were gone by the time I returned home; in fairness though, they were quality Doc Martins and I did live in Swindon.
The other footwear tip is no matter how drunk you get, to take your boots off before you get inside your tent. I would imagine the once quite common nakedness at Glasto is less trendy these days as millennials tend to be prudish. So spare clothes are your friends, but don’t overpack because you have to carry that shit. But most of all, never tell your friends about your other friends, the dry clothes in your backpack, I shouldn’t have to explain why. If word gets out, one dry sock is equal to seven hundred blaggers befriending you.
Clothing in general is common sense really, a fluffy bra or propellerhead hat can be fun when the weather is on your side, but at a wet one the catwalk is swapped for survival of the fittest, practical is the new fashion. Glitter is out, pac-a-macs are in! Waterproof trozzers will make you the envy of all, even if at a sunnier Glasto you’d be laughed off the site for wearing.
If you’re the driver, take a pair of scissors and leave them in the glovebox. I did this in 98, your jeans will be caked with mud, get ’em off when you reach the car, cut them into shorts, it is easier to drive home. Otherwise you’re driving home in your undercrackers, and as a service station supply top up will be a deffo, psychologically scarring small children for life is never looked upon as a clever thing by their parents. A grade A soccer mum Karen whinging at you in the Leigh Delamere carpark while you stand in your four day old pants and a headful of post-festival blues is never welcomed.
Plastic bags have many uses, see photographic evidence of a much younger me; because at first I was afraid, I was petrified, Kept thinking I could never survive without a plastic bag by my side, but I survived and lived to tell the tale through Gloria Gaynor parodies.
Walking the site is tiring when dry, sludging through ankle-high mud is a million times worse and you need to take breaks. If no seating is available, you can’t just plonk down on the grass, you need your bag like Arthur Dent needs his towel.
Honestly, one muddy year I crowned a guy “the genius of Glastonbury,” as he duck-taped an inflatable chair, when inflatable chairs were a thing, to his torso, so wherever he went he could sit in comfort at will. I’m not advising you to do similar, merely pointing out forward thinking, for it was not without its drawbacks discovered over time, like reflating and navigation, though for altications from sharp bramble, he had a bicycle repair kit on his person, further confirming his genius.
But a genius you don’t need to be to survive a muddy Glastonbury, just common sense. Like consuming laxatives, Mexican food or baked beans prior, and ensuring you have a big clearout in the loo before you depart. Do not eat anything which might stimulate your bowels while there. Going to the loo is an experience best avoided at Glastonbury whatever the weather, at a muddy one you take your life in your own hands. You will see things you’d rather have not, things defying medical research, and you could be emotionally scarred for life. If you must go, and if possible, take a licensed therapist with you to the loo as well as a toilet roll and weapons suitable for a zombie apocalypse, and never, I repeat, never, use port-a-loos.
Timing is of the essence when deciding to poo. The later you leave it the worse it will get, a simple motto. Hedgerows and ditches can be your friends at a sunny Glasto, but avoid them like typhoid if wet, unless you happen to welcome typhoid. They are below hell itself as the last place you would want to slip into. Horrifically, I have seen it happen, observed folk laughing too, and felt sorry for the individual, but too afraid to approach them to offer a hand. You’ll be Billy-no-mates if you slip into a ditch thirty thousand drunken hooligans have taken a shit in, no one will aid your escape.
Sign up anyone with a campervan bathroom or VIP access onto your bestie list, shower them with gifts and follow them wherever they go. But, gift buying, especially breakable objects is the stupidest idea in the history of stupid ideas, you are not at B&M. I’ve seen record stalls selling vinyl, glass blowing workshops and various other such insane shopping options. As much as you believe your gran would like a commemorative china plate of Glastonbury, remember you could be several days before you find your tent again, and/or have to pass the main stage area while Slipknot are playing.
The rule for a muddy Glastonbury is simple, take only what you need, buy only what you forgot to bring or realise you might meet your maker if you don’t. No one wants a three tier Victoria sponge caked in mud polluted by 210,000 nutjobs all desperate for a poo.
Now I’ve said all this, it seems like the weather is going to be alright-ish anyway, so you can forget it all….for this year, and have enough fun there for me and you. Remember, final top tip for any weather; avoid TV cameras if you’re pulling a sicky from work; your boss will be watching.
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